


Turncoat

by Esuerc



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 142,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esuerc/pseuds/Esuerc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working for the Railroad isn't all it's cracked up to be - especially when the Brotherhood's got a bounty on you and the Institute's got your number. Turner finds a friend in a disgruntled detective that might have taken on a case too big for his britches, and the two of them fall into a plot that might just be more than enough for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Traitor

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys, this is the first story I've posted in probably four years! I don't have anyone proofreading through this story, so if there are any grammar mistakes or spelling errors I didn't catch, please make sure to tell me! Also, I post pictures of various scenes on my tumblr! Please be gentle.

Chapter 1: Traitor

\---

The dull hum of the descending vertibird broke Turner from her thoughts, the sound and vibration enough to make her heart palpitate in her chest. If the anxiety of what she was doing wasn’t enough, this certainly didn’t help. It took days to get to this point, and even longer still for her to muster up the courage to return to the colossus that was the Prydwen.

Thankfully, fifteen pounds of metal around her head was enough to conceal not only her identity but also her feverish glances at the paladins and Brotherhood scribes that walked the old-world machine.

Turner swallowed the lump in her throat and shifted in her too big power armour -- far too big considering it was made for the now very dead knight left back on the ground.  
Desdemona was furious when she told the Railroad HQ what her plan was: to rescue the hostages that had been taken aboard the Prydwen after one of their safe houses had been sacked. And despite Des’ attempts to dissuade her, Turned vowed to bring back the others.

Soaring above the rooftops of the long-since decimated Boston, lantern lights and gunshots filling the night far below, Turner jumped from the vertibird and onto the deck. She nearly stumbled to the railing, but the laughing knight at her back pulled her by the pauldron and onto her feet. Something about “getting your ship legs back” escaped them before they headed toward the awaiting bulkhead. 

As nonchalantly as a deathclaw in a nursery, Turner followed behind them to the upper deck and into the interior of the ship, the winds whistling through a busted gasket somewhere around the door as it sealed shut behind her. She paused, however, as the others continued up the ladder and into the body of the ship, the dark sanguine hue of the adjoining room catching her attention. She went rigid -- though this went unnoticed taking in consideration of the pre-existing rigidity of her armour -- as the Brotherhood Elder, Maxson, paced from one end of the room to the other, his arms clung loosely behind his back. 

Maxson gave pause when he spied the random knight standing awkwardly in the foyer, and looked them over from beneath a heavy brow, his scowl pulled thin. Turner wiggled five mechanical digits at him and shuffled up the ladder into a new level of hell as his face seemed to grow dark at the sight. 

“Just stay calm.” She told herself once out of view. “Calm. Calm and collected. Act like, uh, Deacon. Act like -- no, that’s a bad idea. Don’t act like Deacon.” 

Retaining any sense of normalcy around her ex brothers and sisters would be a challenge. A pang of guilt sat like a rock in her gut as several scribes passed her with warm “hellos” and the like, and she had to shake her head with more force than intended to wiggle the cobwebs loose. 

“Something the matter, knight?” An all too familiar voice called, and Turner cursed inwardly, glad her unattractive cringe lay hidden. Just as rigid and stout as she remembered, Paladin Danse stood in all his stalwart albeit awkward glory. Three long steps brought him to her, his eyes fallen to her chestplate. 

Turner’s legs bucked momentarily, but her servos kept her still place. The word “howdy” nearly escaped her lips, an old tick, but she corrected herself at the last moment. “Hail, Paladin.” The words left her lips as they had so many times before. “Um, no, nothing’s wrong. Just, uh,” she paused and searched for an excuse, “Just winded. Was attacked on patrol! Yes, attacked by a… deathclaw.” One metal finger pointed to the jagged gashes running through her chestplate. 

Danse turned an eye to the mismatching cuts in the thick plate metal, a worried smile on his handsome features. Truth be told, the scars were less from a deathclaw and more from several strikes of a ripper. Three times, exactly. Or at least until the previous occupant expired (Turner found she couldn’t remember). “Just keep walking.” Her brain screamed, “Just stare at that stupid coif of his and hope he goes away.”

A shaky chuckle escaped her, a laugh she tried to stifle as she made her way to sidestep the too-wide paladin that took up the entire doorway and then some. “I’ve had worse. Going to see Ingram. See what she can do.” Turner began to sidle around Danse’s large frame. “You know, hammer out the ol’ dings and stuff.”

“You wouldn’t use a hammer, I don’t think.” Danse replied, his brows furrowed in confusion. He moved, however, with more than a hint of trepidation, from her path. 

Walking backwards away from him, and nearly toppling Proctor Quinlan, Turner counted her lucky stars at her simple coercion. Through the main repair bay she scooted along, past Teagan’s armoury and up a flight of stairs. Several scribes occupied a table on the landing, a synth specimen laid out before them. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she hoped they had not been part of the group she vowed to rescue, but in the back of her mind she knew. 

To her right lay two unkempt cages, and with more haste than what would be considered normal, Turner made her way over. Only one man lay within, emaciated and unhealthy. Immediately, she recognised him as Tomlin, fellow agent and safe house caretaker. He was worse for wear, too far gone for her to spirit him away in full confidence. If it weren’t for his limp body against the bars of the cell, the obvious damage to his legs, green and mottled, was enough to root her to the spot. 

Where were the others? Turner counted two from what she could see.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” A shiver ran down her spine at the familiar baritone drawl. Turner’s feet became like lead and her jaw clenched with anticipation. One hand curled around the bars of the cell to steady herself as she looked over one bulky pauldron to the voice at her back. 

Elder Maxson gazed intently at the knight before him, the very definition of cool and collected. “Of all the others captured, this one has yet to break under interrogation.” His lip curled, the scar on his cheek crinkled. “We’ve yet to get anything from him. But he’ll be disposed of soon enough.”

“I see.” Turner replied evenly. Maxson was goading her, she knew. 

This close. Being this close to Arthur Maxson after all this time rocked her. Ten years of growing up beside one another, they had been nearly inseparable, until like the rest of his line Maxson took his place as Elder. So young, hardened by the responsibilities and dedication to the Brotherhood, he was changed. Still, Turner had tried to keep their friendship alive despite his growing coldness, despite the gentle eyes she once knew growing hardened and dark.

Turner relinquished her hold on the bar and took a step back, hesitant to meet Maxson’s eye. “Can I help you, Elder?” Her heart raced in her chest, one part sadness, and four parts anger as the memories of why she left bubbled up.

The lights beneath the grate flooring played a horrifying showcase across his features, his eyes narrowed. Maxson did not falter as he turned to face her, but his voice was low and deadly, his whisper like a hiss. “Drop the act, Turner.” Her name was like venom on his lips, and instantly any guilt Turner had dissipated. All venom and spite, he twisted on his heel to face her, the pseudo-knight, and took a single step forward. 

Even in her armour, tall above many others, Maxson was a giant of a man, and he could easily look her straight in the eye. They kept their voices low, but their body language betrayed them. “I knew you’d come for them. As if that synth beau of yours wasn’t enough, you insult me again.” He pressed forward, his heavy footfalls loud. 

Maxson stopped at her toes and gazed deep into her visor. To any other onlooker, it would look like the Elder was simply reprimanding her, but Turner knew what he was doing. His reflection shined back at him from her fogged lenses and a small wrinkle found its way to the bridge of his nose. “You never were the best at making decisions. Never used your head.” His eyes softened for a moment and searched for her behind the mask, the two of them alone in their own right with only the hum of the turbines betwixt them. “Ridley. You still have a--“

“Where are they?” Turner reiterated when he tried to coax her with familiar niceties. Maxson became like stone again and squared his shoulders.

“Gone. You’re too late.”

Turner reeled away from him and grabbed for the laser pistol at her hip, her hand slapping at her side in search of it. Only Maxson now spun it around a gloved finger. Truly, the armour made up in protection what it certainly lacked in perception. “Some time ago, I’m afraid.” The pistol stopped, his finger slipping easily against the trigger. “You’re smarter than this, Turner. But you were always too damn soft.”

Maxson’s eyes traced the barrel of the gun, his visage hardening. 

Turner took a step back and knocked a wheeled table out of the way, the room suddenly smaller. The scribes had ceased their work to watch the scene unfold with their Elder and the knight, something they no doubt would be gossiping about later. 

“I’m not sorry.” She admitted, her hand flat against the nozzle of a compressed canister. “Not sorry. Not at all. It had to be this way.”

“Had to be?” Maxson parroted, an un-amused laugh on his lips. “You had a family. Did the Brotherhood mean nothing to you?” his voice rose as he advanced. 

And for all her armour, for all her protection, Turner grew afraid.

The room was suddenly thick with fog as the canister collided with the wall beside Maxson. The air became thick, alight with red weapon fire as the Elder shot blindly. Turner scrambled with leaden steps toward the forecastle, the upper floor now in a frenzy as the deep bellows of an enraged Elder echoed on the walls. Scribes darted this way and that to dodge the mad sprinting bull in power armour, the grated flooring groaning beneath Turner’s heavy steps. Beneath the burdening fear resting on her shoulders, Maxson could be heard clear as day, shouting a call to arms.

Two of his shots met their mark against the plating of her leg, severing a cable of actuator fluid. He intended to cripple her, to capture and interrogate her like those she tried to rescue. What would she tell Des if she got away? You told me so, but I didn’t listen? What about Deacon? Those damn stupid sunglasses of his made it difficult enough for her to tell what he was thinking, especially when she told him her plan. Now, she was lucky if she got to see them again.

Out of left field, a swift fist broke her from her reverie, squaring against the side of her helmet. Turner reeled through the stars that clouded her vision and struggled back onto her feet. None other than Paladin Danse had barreled up to face her, carrying himself through the punch that knocked the helmet clean from her head.

Turner collapsed against the wall of the narrow walkway headed toward the forecastle, her eyes unfocused as a massive blur stood before her. Anything could have escaped Danse’s lips at that second, but he was frozen. Betrayal and shock renewed shown in his eyes, and though she could not see it, Turner knew. 

She was worse for wear from the last time he saw her, face sunken and eyes drawn, much unlike the woman he knew, lying in a heap of stolen power armour. 

Afraid. 

Turner pried away from the wall in a haze and hauled herself from the floor in a wobbling run. If she were lucky, Danse hadn’t given her a concussion, but damn if the man wasn’t built like a brick house. 

Maxson rushed by the still frozen Danse to give chase, the paladin snapping to only a second later to follow suit. Turner could hear the shuffling of Brotherhood brethren all around like a disturbed stingwing nest, but she continued in her mad dash to escape. 

Sweet, brisk air greeted her as the door to the forecastle flew open with a ramming shoulder and a stumble. Devoid of life save for the loud alarm of “intruder” over the intercom system, Turner would have been relieved… if it weren’t for the fact Paladin Danse was hot on her heels, easily sprinting past Elder Maxson to burst through the doorway and out behind her. 

Before she had time to react, he grabbed hold of a pauldron and spun her around, aiming to strike. But Turner’s fist came from below and knocked against the unarmoured side of his ribs, Danse’s jab barely scuffing her jaw. She pulled away as Danse assaulted her arms with a flurry of punches until the edge of the deck was at her back. 

The railing groaned against her armour loudly and through the arms that blocked the assault, she could make out the disappointment in the Paladin’s eyes. He remained silent, but Turner was far past caring then. Another punch and well placed kick against his chest, Danse was sent back on his haunches, Maxson easily taking his place.

Pistol drawn and squared at her now exposed head, red dot steady between her eyes, his voice rang out over the wind. “Enough! No more running! No more games!”

A single shot continued into the distance, a hard slap pushing the gun from her head as Turner made her way to stand atop the railing. Her feet tipped back and forth as the wind refused to let her balance, her hand finding its way to a support cable to steady herself. From behind Maxson, Danse straightened, several more knights flooding onto the deck to join them. 

Through the foggy ether, the Commonwealth ambled slowly beneath them, the Prydwen making its way slowly around the breadth of the war-torn city. Through the miasma of clouds, Turner could make out Trinity Tower, a hospital, and other holes and crevices super mutants called home. She would rather the Brotherhood capture her than face them alone. 

“Stand down!” Maxson barked to the knights at his heel, the heat of plasma and the unmistakable stench of ozone at his call. “Ridley Nadine Turner, you have been charged with treason, and an attempt at theft of Brotherhood property.” It was an act to seem diplomatic in front of his men, Turner knew, but she let him continue without a word. His voice became more even and the gun in his hand did not falter. “Come willingly, and I may be forgiving.”

“Bullshit.” She said simply, light as though she didn’t have a dozen guns aimed at her that very second. Both Turner and Maxson knew there would be no compromise, not after what had transpired between them almost a year ago, and from the look on Danse’s face so did he.

Turner chanced another look down at the Commonwealth, her cropped bangs stuck to her forehead from sweat and a line of blood from just above her temple. “No.” she spoke above the gale, “Lyons was right. We can’t…” her neck grew taut, her armour feeling tighter than it had previously. “I couldn’t treat them like you do. Not anymore. Synths, ghouls,” a collection of lights through the cloud cover caught her eye. A settlement, and a big one at that. “It’s wrong.”

“You should have stayed with Lyons back in the capital. You knew our intentions!” Maxson dared a single step forward.

“I followed you, idiot!” she yelled. Her hand stung as it was the only thing keeping her from being blown away. “You said you would do good for the sake of humanity. This! This isn’t--“

“For humanity, Turner.” He reiterated quietly and took another step forward.

His brothers and sisters stood in awed silence at his display as he neared the perilous woman in too-big power armour, a woman they used to call sister almost a year ago. 

A gloved hand stretched to meet her, once so inviting, harkening back to better times before all this. “Ghouls, mutants, synths.” Maxson spat the last word with ire, and his eyes fell to collect his thoughts. “Humanity can’t continue with their existence.”

“No.” Turner agreed. “But they deserve a chance. Metro deserved a chance.” Her eyes glanced at the hand waiting to accept, an invitation to come “peacefully”, back to a world she now abhorred. Maxson’s face seemed to twist the very mention of “Metro”, and his fingers curled involuntarily. 

One foot fell away from her perch and dangled in the air. “Ad Victorium, Maxson.” Her hand loosened around the cable, her eyes never leaving his. 

Maxson’s shout was lost to the wind as the ground came rising up to meet her. 

\--

Up next: 

Chapter 2: Diamond City Detective


	2. Diamond City Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by the support you guys have given me! I'm just -- wow! I can't thank all of you enough!
> 
> Once again, I've got no one proofreading this other than me, so if you spot any grammar mistakes or spelling errors, make sure to tell me!
> 
> Thank you, guys! I love you!

\---

A rattle escaped her lungs, dry and full of dust. With what remained of a metallic hand, Turner cradled her head, layers of debris fallen on her armoured frame. The armour had saved her life from the fall, but now it lay broken and shattered beyond repair, the frame all that remained. One pauldron, actually, stayed put, but as far as protection was concerned it might as well be a piece of asbestos. 

The wall atop her slid away with ease and she fumbled in an attempt to stand, her legs wobbling like a newly born radstag. Probably concussed. If not from Danse, then definitely herself. It didn’t come as a surprise when the colours before her eyes swam at extremes, saturated and overblown like she’d done a huff of jet, blackness at the edge of her vision. Jet would probably be a nice diversion to what she was feeling. 

Through the dust and the collapsed flooring of the apartment she’d fallen into, Turner looked skyward to find the flying fortress from which she fell. Only the dull hum of its turbines in the far distance could be heard.  
She was in luck. 

The sky was thick with rain clouds, and the familiar crackle of a radiation storm boomed in the heavens, just over the city to the south. Turner collected herself as best she could, her servos jarred but most definitely the only thing keeping her upright. If she were lucky, Maxson might think her dead. But she remembered in their early days the competitions they had to see how far one could fall in a full rig without blowing out the armour. Maxson won every time. 

Turner couldn’t have been far from the settlement she spied, as the familiar pop and hum of turrets was heard just around the corner. Step by slow step, she made her way down the abandoned thoroughfare and toward the warm glow of firelight, a large sign reading “DIAMOND CITY” hanging haphazardly from an electrical wire. 

Two guards gathered around the roaring flames of a rusted barrel, but drew their weapons as Turner’s heavy footfalls neared. Rather ungracefully, she waddled up to the pair, one of which visibly relaxed when she came into the light.  
“Oh, you.” The young guard spoke, his face hidden beneath an umpire’s mask. “Back again? Your friend with the glasses isn’t here, if you were thinkin’ of causing trouble. Looks like you’ve been in some, though.”

Turner leant above the barrel and let the heat hit her face, her eyes burning before she closed them. “No, Deacon’s not here. Or, at least, I hope not.” Her neck popped with a twist. “Unless you guys have taken on some new guards recently you don’t know about.”

“You alright?” the older guard asked but did not lower his assault rifle. Turner glanced up at the man and grimaced. “You have business?”

“Lay off. She’s been here before.” the first guard was quick to stop him. “Ain’t that right?”

Through the jumble that was her mind, her temples pulsating in painful static, Turner feigned a smile, half-assed as the day was long. The younger guard stepped forward, his armour hanging from his shoulders and gun unbalanced in his hand. “Come on. Before you get anyone else’s attention.” He tugged her along like a child by the wrist, “But if anyone asks, it wasn’t me that let you in.”

She was walked to the partially opened gate and beckoned inside under the cover of darkness. The door clanked shut behind her with a resounding thud, gears whirring and locks sliding into place. Down into the city she went, down into the smoke-filled alleys aglow with lamplight. 

Of course, Turner had been in Diamond City, more times than she cared to admit. Most of the time it was under the city, but in the city nevertheless. Diamond City’s reputation certainly preceded itself, but truth be told she would much rather be found skulking around Goodneighbor, shooting the shit with the Mayor. Or underground with the rest of the Railroad. Whichever worked. 

The Railroad. She ran a hand down her dirtied features. What would she tell Desdemona when she returned? She was right, because of course she was? What kind of smart-ass remark would Deacon tell her before she made it a game to smack those damn glasses off his face? He’d probably have another pair right underneath them, if she knew him well enough. Which she didn’t.

The smell of food filled the air. Well, that and sewage, which quickly ruined the food smell. Behind the counter of Power Noodles stood a single robot, apron adorning its chest and a small hat atop its domed head. And though her stomach rumbled, power armour didn’t come with pockets with which to hold caps. Besides, if it weren’t for the one patron sitting at the counter this time of night… morning… whatever, fedora tipped low, she would have thought them closed like the majority of shops in the square. 

It wasn’t until a rather dingy, unpolished and generally-worse-for-wear handyman puttered into view. “Hello, madam!” it cheered, its volume knob turned far too high. If ever Turner saw Paladin Danse again, she had to be sure to return the favour of the headache now sitting in her temples. Though she might have to jump to reach.

Fortuitous circumstance or no, she was glad at least one store remained open. And with nothing but the clothes on her back, Turner exited her rig, a hand on its arm for support. Once out of the security of the frame, she looked meek, far too small to operate the armour without difficulty. “How much this worth?” she mustered. 

The bot was taken aback and tutted as it zipped around her and the armour frame, its three apertures dilated in interest. It made three circuits around her until it must have been satisfied. “Well now! Hmm…” One of its servos prodded at the frame, the other two curling under its round belly. Though the remains had been scuttled, what stood now was still largely intact. “Five hundred, no more!” The handyman cried cheerily and returned to its spot under the overhang as a flash of lightning struck across the sky, the heaven a dull, sickly green. 

Turner popped her lips. It wasn’t as much as she liked, but she was in no position to argue, given the circumstance and weather. The armour was bartered and in the trade the bot slipped her a simple 10mm pistol “free of charge!” with a pat to her head. By free of charge, it meant it couldn’t sell the damn thing and wanted to be rid of it. But with a full clip and a bag full of caps, Turner shuffled away with as high a head as she could muster, the first droplets of rain trickling down onto the dirt. 

One of the city guards who bothered to stop directed her to the Dugout Inn with the sawed off end of their shotgun, and once inside she gagged from the smell of booze and… well, vomit, probably. Unless the two hundred year old pastry in the little claw machine to her right had finally turned. It was hard to tell, and Turner didn’t much care. She came to a stop at the counter across the way and took in the man who stood behind it. 

Her eyes unfocused for a short second before she managed to get herself right again. The man’s face was red with inebriation, but he stood firm - - not too drunk. “I need a room.” Turner drawled and dug into the small pouch at her side until the bottle caps bit into her fingers. The man laughed and leaned over the counter, his breath putrid with drink. 

“Ha ha, yes. Thirty…”

“One hundred caps.” Turner cut him short and placed a hefty pile on the counter, the caps jostling against the plastic. “One hundred, and if anyone comes around asking, I wasn’t here.”

The man’s eyes narrowed with a gleeful smile and he dragged the caps across the counter and into his coat pocket. “Who? I have never seen you before. These, these caps. They just fall into pocket. Yasif!”

Another man who had been slumbering in a chair sprang up, his suit crumpled and his face more so. “No one here wants room. You show them. They were never here.”

Yasif sighed and waved for Turner to follow him, a rather spacious bedroom toward the back their destination. No questions asked. Simple as that. Deacon would be proud… if he wasn’t prancing around Diamond City already. 

The lock on the bedroom door slid into place one she was alone, and with an exhausted huff Turner collapsed on the bed. 

\--- 

Golden eyes had watched the exchange from across the courtyard. Being the only patron at Power Noodles that time of morning, he either had too much time on his hands or enjoyed the quiet of the early, early morning. 

Nick Valentine sat, a Boston Bugle raised to hide his curious glances. If he wasn’t careful, he’d burn a hole straight through the paper with his cigarette. 

He remained still, the half-done cigarette hung loosely in his mouth like he’d forgotten it was there. Last time he’d seen someone stroll through Diamond City in power armour, he’d been at their side. The girl, or woman, he guessed, was too small for the armour she all but floundered out of. Either underfed or her clothes too big for her frame. Or both. 

Nick chewed at the end of his cigarette before butting it against the counter, watching the woman all but shamble her way toward the Dugout Inn, bag of caps in hand. The patter of rain began shortly thereafter, and he was glad the noodle shop had a decently large roof -- the crackle of irradiated lighting spooking the guards into hiding. 

The noodle bot called to Nick, bringing him back as he watched the city turn a dark green. “Hmm? Oh, nothin’, Tak. New kid in town just caught my attention. Not enough new faces, if you ask me.” His words drawled out and his glowing eyes traveled back to the corner the Dugout Inn was hidden behind. 

Not even an hour or so ago, that Brotherhood airship flew over the city, its spotlight burning just about every surface, the sound of the engines alone foreboding. It surprised Nick that half of Diamond City wasn’t awake, though he guessed they were used to the dirigible flying overhead for almost a year now. 

Takahashi called at Nick again, pivoting at its hips to wave one rigid arm at the synth. Nick smacked the counter with his out of date newspaper and drew his mouth into a line. One metal finger pointed at the noodle bot, “Now don’t you start. It’s not -- it’s not a damsel thing. That happened one time.” 

Takahashi repeated itself.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

\--- 

A dull ache in her back, head, and other parts she dare not mention woke Turner from a small puddle of drool. She breathed in the scent of dust and old mattress with a groan and wriggled her toes still inside her shoes. She had to get back to the Railroad HQ, but she was in no condition to go waltzing around the Commonwealth. Danse had already done a number on her, and the fall from the Prydwen only added insult to injury. Literally. 

A ratty pullover and hand-me-down jeans from Deacon were hardly travel wear, but it was just about all she had right now. The armour frame wouldn’t have provided much protection anyway, she told herself, even if she had kept it.

It was late morning, if the sun filtering through the boards over her windows was any indication. She’d need to buy supplies today, maybe some odds and ends of armour, food, drink, more food, med-x, food. Food definitely was at the forefront of her mind, the smell of meat wafting down the hall and into her bedroom. 

Turner all but slithered out of bed and headed out the door. Maybe iguana on a stick? Or Brahmin? Hell, a bottle of scotch, a shot of med-x. Maybe a synth in a fedora at the front counter…

Wait.

Turner shambled back into the hall and squirreled herself behind the doorframe, peeking out just past Yasif’s shoulder. 

“A dame? About yay big?” A synth in a worn out trench coat, hand sewn patches and all, asked Vadim. He drew a hand up to his shoulder for emphasis. 

“I’m taller than that.” Turner whispered, though Yasif heard her from his seat. “At least to his chin.”

“No, you’re not.” Yasif joked quietly but didn’t turn to face her. 

“No, no dame, Valentine. No empty rooms at night, huh? You get what I mean?” The synth looked unconvinced, this Valentine, and he leaned hard into Vadim’s space. 

“I ain’t out to get her goat, Vadim. But I saw her head this way last night. Never seen her in the city before. Wanted to make sure she wasn’t in trouble.”

Yasif made a sound like an “aw”, though sarcasm was thick on its edges. Turner shushed him, but slipped back into hiding when the yellow eyes of Valentine all but looked in their direction. 

Vadim waved his hand and drew Nick near, whispering something to the synth. “Pay you? Vadim.” He warned and looked out from under the brim of his hat, his eyes glowing in the shadows. Vadim would have sold her out, rat bastard. 

Yasif chuckled with a small snort in his nose. “You’re not the first Valentine has come looking for. What did you do to get the clockwork dick’s attention?”

“Dick is right. The both of them.” Turner chanced to poke her head out.

“No, no, not that kind of dick.”

“I know what you meant.” She took in the would-be detective, from tattered slacks to patched hat. Poor bot seemed to have seen better days: the plastic on his face wasn’t too well off, it was off coloured, bits of wire exposed here of there. Tinker Tom back at HQ would love to have a look at this guy. 

He couldn’t be from the Institute, Turner surmised. The people in Diamond City seemed to have accepted him, and the few times she’d been in the city she’d never even run across him. “Never met the guy.” She told Yasif and watched the synth leave with the tip of his hat. 

Turner stepped out into the open and up to Vadim, her palm slapping against the counter harder than she intended. Her hand stung, but she hid the face from him. “Look who it is! My favourite no one! Eh? Vadim keep your secret.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Unless admirer comes by, then who knows? Come, come! You want breakfast.” She opened her mouth like a fish to argue but her stomach spoke faster. And louder. 

A half hour later and more food than Vadim thought someone of Turner’s size could eat, she made quick work of a bath. Grime, dust, sweat, Maxson’s tears. Gone and down the drain. She didn’t smell like a lily, whatever that was, but she certainly didn’t smell, and that’s what mattered. “One more night.” She told Vadim as she left the Inn, “And maybe a big tip when I leave.” The last bit was added more as a precaution in case that Valentine fellow showed up again.

It wasn’t as though she was afraid of him. Far from it. She just couldn’t help but be wary of a synth walking about in broad daylight in one of the biggest settlements in the Commonwealth. She half expected to see him whistling some old Bing Crosby song in the middle of the square. 

Sneaking a glance outside the door of the Dugout for any sign of the wannabe detective, she walked into the brisk sunlight after she was certain. Fall had descended on Boston early this year, and already she found the chill seeping in past her clothes.  
A nuclear winter was no fun unless you slept next to a fire, or a heater, or a ghoul, and Turner left hers in Goodneighbor after a little spit-spat. So no such luck. 

Maybe it would snow this year. And maybe she wouldn’t have to worry about ferals coming out of said snow. Or Deacon disguising himself as a snowman. 

The bot at the Power Noodles stand caught her eye again, one mechanical arm raised in salutation. Several other patrons sat at the bar as she neared, deep bowls of great smelling noodles before them. If she hadn’t already eaten, she’d be doing so now. Maybe later. 

The bot repeated itself, same inflection and all, and ambled to the edge of the stand, its hat falling off in the process. Turner bent over and retrieved the small hat and placed it back atop its head, slightly crooked. Again, the bot repeated itself, this time with the tap-tap-tap of its clawed hand on a small yellowed card on the register. Without even picking up the card, she could read the rather sloppy script. “Nick Valentine Detective Agency. So he really is a detective.” She stopped herself short and stepped away.

The noodle bot’s hand slapped at the card with increased fervor, and it would have been funny if Turner wasn’t afraid it was going to overload itself. “Okay, okay! I’ll take it.” The agency card found its way into her pants pocket, now crumpled. The noodle bot relaxed and swung back around, noodle bowl in hand. “No.” she growled out at the bot’s persistence. “You get one.”

\---

Out of sight of the shop, she breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t even the courtesy of meeting this Nick Valentine face to face, and already she was about sick of him. Partly due to her own fear, and the rest from the old adage “you can’t trust anyone”. Maybe he was actually Deacon in disguise, testing her. Maybe he stepped his game up from impersonating a ghoul to -- no, that was ridiculous, even for him. 

“You’re leaving here tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.” She told herself to gather up her courage. One more night, and she’d manage her way back to the hideout.

By sundown, Turner had managed to fill a rather hefty rucksack with supplies and got a small, albeit rather protective chest piece for the trip back tomorrow. And with one or two drinks knocked back and a shot of med-x to dull the throb in her, well, everything, she wandered aimlessly with less discretion than she should have.

Finding a comfortable spot atop the bleachers, high away from Diamond City’s citizens, she sipped at a half empty quantum, her legs splayed over several seats in a rather unlady-like fashion. Glowing piss be damned, the soda and its rocket shaped bottle did wonders for the body. Tomorrow, she could sleep in her own bed, speak with her own people. Aside from the explaining she’d have to do, Turner was less worried now than she had been in weeks. Or, at least she was.

“Nice night, huh, kid?” drawled a rather unenthused voice. Turner fell back from her seat and tumbled to the ground, the rest of her cola spilt. Looking up from her position on the cold concrete, she spied the would-be detective. 

“Trechcoat wearing dick.” Her mind spat. In reality, she just liked saying the word, as immature and unfunny as it was. Helped, given the word wasn’t entirely wrong in this situation. 

A fresh cigarette on his lips and his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Valentine wasn’t intimidating, just peculiar. But from under his battered hat, he stared, eyed unblinking and wide, face lit red. 

“It was.” Turner replied shortly and dragged herself up off the ground. Her cola bottle clinked as it rolled down several bleachers, disappearing over the lip and to the grass. Cutting to the chase, she pulled her pullover back and proper again. “You’ve been asking about me.”

“Well, it’s not every day an airship decides it wants to blind half a city with search lights looking for one person. Colour me curious, is all.” His yellow eyes searched out over the rooftops, smoke escaping from the tear around his jaw, anywhere but his nose. “Call me a skeptic, but I can’t help but pair the fact that you just happened to show up in some shoddy armour right around the time the Brotherhood took a walk.”

Valentine’s eyes returned to Turner, only to find her scurrying away through the seats. Nearly shredding his cigarette to pieces between his teeth, he pushed his hat forward and sped after her. “If you need help, all you gotta do is ask! People don’t usually run unless they’ve got somethin’ chasin’ them!” he yelled out, but shrunk into himself at the echo that followed.

Technically, he was the one who was chasing, but that’s not what he meant.

Turner leapt from the stands and rolled as she hit the ground. He wanted to help, wanted to help her with whatever was going on, wanted to know if she was in some danger. And here she was running like she had last night, running from her problems instead of facing them. 

She looked back. Valentine was having a hard time keeping her in his line of sight, and soon she managed to lose him. 

Valentine slowed to a stop when he lost track of her, his fans working overtime. The girl was quick, he’d give her that. Had to be in a world like this.

He did know one thing, though. 

She had a room at the Dugout Inn.

\--- 

Turner breathed a sigh of relief as she rounded a corner and slid down against the metal shack wall. The cool metal against her cheek was a respite. The neon pink heart to her left, however, was not. “Really?” Bright and ostentatious, the Valentine Detective Agency sign was like an immediate reminder. “I can’t get away from the guy.”

Close to knocking the sign loose from its place on the wall, she snuck back to the Dugout, only to find it was largely empty upon her return. Strange, given it was still early into the night. Yasif was nowhere to be seen, and Vadim stood strangely at his post. Glass and rag in hand, his neck was taut and smile faked, and immediately he offered her another drink. 

His lowered brow and nervous laughter betrayed him. He had said something. To someone. And Turner was afraid she knew who. 

She walked toward her room without breaking eye contact with him, up until she was behind the wall and at her door. She threw it open and walked in quickly like she had a fire in her britches, heading across the room to her rucksack. 

She unzipped it with some difficulty, and began to rummage. “Food, water, clothes. Stimpaks. Teddy.” Everything she needed was packed away in her bag, ready to go.

The door to her room shut with a soft click at her back, and she spun, hand digging into her bag for something with which to defend herself.. 

Wide, yellow eyes stared back from the darkness. 

\---

Up next:

Chapter 3: Robot Road Trip


	3. Robot Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your support! I'm so glad you guys like Turner! And all the fan art I've received has been amazing! Thank you!
> 
> This work isn't proofread by anyone but me, so if you see any typos or grammar mistakes, please tell me!
> 
> \---

The last thing Nick Valentine expected to deal with that night was dodging odds and ends and the occasional unmentionable being thrown at his person. A teddy bear being thrown at mach speed knocked the hat from his head and squeaked against the door before everything seemed to calm down. 

“Relax, kid!” Nick tried, his arms raised to protect his now exposed head if the girl decided at another round. Turner held an alarm clock in her hand, arm readied like a catapult behind her. “Glad you didn’t go for the gun. Don’t really have time to go patching this coat again.”

Turner felt dumb for not having gone for her pistol like the synth had mentioned, but it was probably for the best. 

Nick stared past his arms and took the girl in: scrappy, early twenties, still had a thing for stuffed animals. Bit pale, sunburn on her cheeks like she hadn’t spent enough time outside or perhaps maybe too much at one time. He made a log for every peculiarity and straightened himself, “You with the Institute?” Turner asked, but never dropped the alarm clock. 

“Really?” Nick was deadpan, his half idled eyes blinking lazily. “You gotta ask that?”

“You’d be surprised.” Turner was just as dry. 

“I’m surprised, all right.” Nick lifted a leg to dodge the alarm clock. 

“You just don’t normally see synths walking around in the open.” She explained, all out of ammunition with which to throw. “Not unless it’s a bunch of Gen 1’s tearing up a town.”

“Can’t say I’ve torn up a town. Unless you count,” Nick watched her dig into her bag for something else to throw, “Come on, I’m yankin’ your chain.”

Turner looked small hunched up on the floor, her shoulders forward and her bottom lip pursed. All piss and vinegar. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?” Nick thought to himself. Bending forward, he retrieved his hat from the floor and placed it atop his head, feeling less naked already before the eyes that never left him. “Runnin’ from something? Or someone?” he pondered aloud and glanced around the room. He stepped over the small pile of doodads and thingummies that collected around him and moved away from the door. 

“Both. Kind of. Also running to something could also be accurate. But that’s none of your business.” Turner replied curtly and stood to her full, intimidating-to-no-one-save-children height.

“Then why’d you say it.” Nick laughed under his breath at the flustered look on her face. She was sharp… well, maybe as sharp as a butter knife, but she was nervous, that much was obvious. 

“This could be an act.” Turner thought as she mindlessly tapped against the wall, the synth blocking her only means of escape. “This could be a trap, and the Institute could have finally caught up with her.” Her lips twisted into a frown and she wrung her hands nervously in the pocket of her coat. Maybe he was actually trying to help. Would it be too much for someone to want to help her get back to HQ, especially a synth? “Have you ever heard of the Railroad?”

“Of course. Folks do a lot of good helping runaway synths and all that.” Nick quirked a brow at her, suddenly more curious than he had been previously. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”

Turner’s eyes darted away from him before they returned slowly. “Maybe.”

The walls had ears. That was something Deacon had hammered into her, though sometimes he joked that the ears were literal. 

“You’re in trouble, huh?” Nick laughed and took a seat in the wooden chair in the corner of the room, now under the light of the only lamp.

Turner wanted desperately to make a stupid “noire detective” joke, but she held her tongue. She had a hard time pinpointing just what she thought of the synth detective, this Nick Valentine. He sat in the corner of her room, nonchalant and brazen, like breaking and entering was nothing to be concerned about. The way his eyes softened as he gazed at her didn’t help.

“Explains you showing up the way you did.” It was Turner’s turn to sit, right on the edge of her bed, as far from him as possible. Just in case the synth really was a bogeyman in disguise. “That airship flyin’ over the city in the dead of night. You strollin’ in with nothin’ but a power armour frame on your back. Not hard to tell who stirred up the hornet’s nest.”

Turner’s face fell into her hands, defeated. “I went onboard the Prydwen to find some of our agents that had been taken hostage by the Brotherhood.” The admission came through her fingers, hard to hear. “I knew it was a mistake; believe me, everyone was sure to drill that into my head before I left.”

Nick listened intently, his eyes downcast to the metal fingers that drummed against the nightstand. “It didn’t go as you’d planned, huh? Spooked a hell of a lot of people seeing that thing over the city again. How’d you manage to get onboard?”

Turner twisted to face him fully, dirty shoes curled under her on the mattress. A cigarette found its way to his lips and he offered her one out of courtesy. She politely declined with the wave of a hand and a shake of the head. “I’d been planning it for a bit. Tinker Tom was giving me all sorts of ideas, but most of them were bunk. Take a suit, get onboard, get the hostages, and fly a vertibird out. Tried explaining it to a friend in Goodneighbor, but it didn’t go over well.”

“I take it you didn’t fly out the way you flew in, the way you came limping into town. Was at the noodle stand when you stopped by Percy’s.”

“Oh, I flew alright. Straight toward the ground. Selling the hunk of junk armour afterwards was all I could really do.”  
Nick snorted, smoke escaping his lips, “And leaving a trail if they come looking for you.”

Turner fell back on the bed, palms against her eyes. A groan escaped her, which turned into a quiet whine. Nick leant forward onto his knees and tapped his cigarette into the ash tray, “So what now? Where you headed?” 

She remained where she was, but lowered her hands to the mattress. “Go back to HQ and tell them what happened, and hope I have a good enough excuse. Hide out for a little while after that.”

“You sure about going back so soon? Might be someone on your tail?” she sat up, quick as lightning at his words, and considered them for a minute. “Don’t want to go leadin’ them back to your friends, do you?”

With the click of her tongue, Turner looked him dead in the eye, “I… I hadn’t thought about that. But I can’t stay in the city.” A grimace caught her features, “I should. I should go to Goodneighbor, actually.” The words were like a strained whisper, but Nick heard her all the same. 

“What for?”

“I need to apologise to someone.”

“Make amends, huh? Take it you left on a sour note, then.” She nodded to his question, but didn’t extrapolate. “Well, that might just work for the both of us.”

“Us?” her question was guarded, her brow raised far up into her hair.

“’Course. Gotta drop by the memory den, anyway. Gotta… gotta look a few things over.”

“You’re a memory addict.” Turner laughed at her statement, not even bothering to make it a question. A genuine smile crossed her lips, her eyes crinkled in jest, “Gonna play some memories about your motherboard?”

“Very funny.” Nick couldn’t help but grin. “So, how ‘bout this? We go together, you get the heat off your back, apologise to your friend, and I get some time out of the ballpark.” He stood and extended his exposed hand for an agreement.

Turner grinned and clasped her hand against his, which hurt more than she thought. “Fine. But if you turn out to be a courser, I’m shooting your kneecaps.”

\---

Maxson paced from one end of the forecastle to the other, the chill of the wind a dull ache in his cheeks and a fire in his lungs. Turner had come back to the Brotherhood, but not in the way he had envisioned. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deep. 

He should have killed her, shot her between the eyes the second Danse knocked the helmet from her head, or in front of the rest of his brothers and sisters when they followed suit. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, regretfully, after seeing her for the first time in so long.

It gave Maxson pause. 

He gripped the railing until the leather of his gloves bit painfully into his joints. The woman he would have dared to call friend, the one who betrayed them all for some machine, some mind-wiped bot from the Institute that wormed its way into her heart. Maxson’s teeth clenched at the memory of Metro and the look on Turner’s face as he personally executed him. 

He pried himself away from the railing, the very spot from which Turner had leapt, and glanced to the bulkhead behind him. The heavy door leading within opened with a quiet groan, and out onto the landing stepped the colossal frame of a paladin, their X-01 armour a muted grey. “Paladin Riddik, you know why I’ve called you here.” Maxson’s voiced traveled over the wind, level despite its volume. 

Eyeing the flutter of Riddik’s tattered “cape”, an old Brotherhood flag affixed beneath their pauldron, he looked them down. “I have a mission for you, Paladin. Personal, though it seems, I can assure you it is best for all the Brotherhood.” Quick and curt, Maxson spoke, but Riddik did not move, made no show to tell the Elder they had acknowledged him. 

“As you are aware, an ex-sister of ours recently gained access to the Prydwen in an attempt to secure our hostages. This is unacceptable.” If Turner had so easily infiltrated the flying airship, how easily could she lead the Railroad (he dreaded the thought) into the heart of the Brotherhood of Steel?

Riddik stood taller, if such a thing were possible. “You will track and find Ridley Turner, and you will return her to me. Alive.” 

Maxson knew the Paladin’s zealotry knew no bounds, and any threat to the Brotherhood: Railroad, Institute, or otherwise was a personal affront. “From what information we could glean from the hostages, a Railroad safe house is nearby. Ticonderoga. You will start your search there.”

Riddik stared out from beneath black glass, their visor scuffed and marred. And though their helmet conveyed no emotion, their silence asked “what then?”

“If Turner is not there, then you will leave a message. We will find her, and we will tear apart the Railroad, piece by piece, until she surrenders herself.”

Riddik raised a fist to their chest in confirmation and bowed to Maxson before disappearing inside the ship.

Maxson hoped then Riddik had the control to follow his commands. 

\---

Turner trotted alongside Nick, walking faster to keep up with his long gait. But she dared not say something for fear she give him more ammunition. 

Ever since they’d left the safety of Diamond City that morning, she’d been on edge, and the synth’s inadvertent, off-handed comments and quasi-flirtation was putting her on tilt. He tried earlier, just after she’d woken up and found herself at Power Noodles, to nudge her into conversation about her history with the Brotherhood, but she was steadfast in that it would remain a secret. Didn’t stop him from egging her on with jocularity, though, if not for his own amusement. 

The waters of the river that flowed through Boston were particularly ripe as they walked at its edge, and more than once Turner plugged her nose from what must have been mirelurks. Nick would only laugh through a cigarette, something that still confounded her as to why he did it. Was it a tick? Perhaps Gen 2’s or whatever Nick Valentine was had workings she hadn’t quite known about. Turner wasn’t an expert on synths by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew enough to be thrown for a loop.

“You got quiet, kid. Somethin’ to get off your chest?” Nick kicked an aluminum can down the road. It clacked against the ground before it settled against the rim of a burnt out car. Or as he lovingly referred to them “gas guzzling deathtraps”.

“I don’t get it.” Turner continued where Nick left off, and sent the can further down the road.

“Get what? You gotta be a little more specific, sweetheart.”

“I don’t get why or how you, a synth, manage to live in one of the most well-guarded settlements in the Commonwealth. It’s not something I typically see. That’s what I don’t get.” She spun and looked at him, walking backwards. “That and why you smoke. What does a synth get out of it?”

Nick chuckled and dropped his spent cigarette, kicking their can. “I suppose I can spin that tale if you’re up for a game of quid pro quo.”

“Quid what?” Confusion crossed Turner’s face and she stopped dead in her tracks. 

As Nick continued past, he nudged her shoulder playfully, “You tell me something, and I tell you something.”

“Nuh-uh.” She interjected and jogged after to be at his side. He had to work for whatever information he wanted out of her.

“Then no dice.”

Turner kicked the can harder than intended, which sent it skidding down the muddied slope and into the water. “You’re the detective, you figure me--“ she took a few steps back, “Uh oh.”

“’Uh oh’ what?” Nick watched Turner turn tail and jump on top of a car, and then up onto a rusted fire escape.

“You gotta give me more than that, Kid. I’m not about to go and bite your head off.”

Clicking, snapping, and hissing made Nick look back to the water’s edge where five mirelurks appeared from the depths. “Shit!” From the holster in his coat, he pulled his pistol and began to fire at the advancing creatures, but to no avail as they ducked and the bullets lodged themselves uselessly in their shells. “A little more than ‘uh oh’ would have been nice!”

He ran toward the car and jumped atop it quickly, leaping to grab hold of the rungs of the fire escape. Turner stood on the grated walkway and took potshots at the enraged creatures that now snapped under the fire escape, her 10mm not doing so much as a dent on their carapaces. 

“Way to leave a man hanging.” Nick grumbled as she grabbed his extended hand and pulled him out of harm’s way.

“You wanted to get out of Diamond City for a bit. What did you expect?” she laughed at his crestfallen face and watched the mirelurks do circles below. 

“A walk in the park would have been nice.”

Turner sat down, her legs dangling over the edge, and rummaged through her pack. “You suppose we just wait for them to cool down and shove off?”

Nick holstered his pistol and watched his companion pull forth a teddy bear from her bag, the same one that knocked the hat from his head. She gave it a small peck on the forehead before hurling it far off toward the water. It splashed loudly, and the mirelurks turned and sped toward the noise. They then simply followed the teddy as it flowed away with the current. 

“Shall we have a memorial service in his honor?” Nick joked and helped Turner to her feet, where she brushed off her britches.

“Shut up.” She punched his shoulder lightly and continued down the ladder back to the street.

“You hurt me. Talkin’ to an old man like that.”

\---

They continued on in amicable silence, Turner running on top of an old car in the middle of the road, its bubble roof caved in. She balanced along the remaining metal with her arms outstretched, “So…” she started.

“So…?” Nick was at as much a loss as she. 

Turner landed less than gracefully, “What happens when it rains?”

He snorted, “What about the rain?”

“Does it get in your chassis? And you have to do a headstand to drain all the water out?”

“Smartass.” He shook his head at the prod, “When you take a bath, do you make sure to empty that head of yours?”

He caught her beet-red face, flushed with embarrassment. The girl was too easy to tease, but damn if she didn’t bring it upon herself. “Of course, by the smell of you, I’d say it’s been a while.”

If Turner’s face could go any redder, she’d pop. “I took a bath yesterday, thank you very much.”

“Must have not scrubbed behind your ears.”

Silence sat between them, and Turner sniffed at her coat. “I don’t actually smell, do I?”

“You ain’t exactly a bed of roses.”

“Says the synth that smells like a two week old ashtray.”

Another quiet second passed between the two, punctuated by the random sniff here or there as Turner checked herself.

“What’s a rose, anyway?”

\---

Up next:

Chapter 4: Not So Good Neighbor


	4. Not so Good Neighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, you guys have been amazing! Thank you for all your support, here and on my tumblr!

\---

The scene outside was dismal, the rain beating down on Goodneighbor’s rustic buildings since earlier that evening. Hancock looked forlornly out the window of his statehouse quarters, arms crossed underneath his chin and hat pressed firmly against the dirty panes of glass. Fahrenheit stood near the door arch of the room with Guns and Bullets magazine in hand, her legs crossed loosely at the ankle.

“You gonna get out there, or you just gonna stare out the window all night?” she asked and flipped a page.

“You’ve smelt wet ghoul before. I ain’t goin’ out in this.” Hancock would have flared his nostril if he had any. With each puff of breath he fogged the glass, and with a gnarled finger he began to draw in the condensation.

Fahrenheit pried herself from the wall and walked over to the window to stare out into the grey. She made sure to knock Hancock on the head lightly with her magazine.

The shops were open still, their lights bright in the heavy drizzle that fell, but the streets were empty save a drunkard or two. Goodneighbor had remained largely uneventful since the drone of the Prydwen filled the sky nary a few days ago, and since the people remained somewhat skittish of being outside for too long.

“Would you look at that.” She crooned under her breath and folded her magazine up.

“What?” Hancock drew a rather fat deathclaw on the glass, though it looked more like a brahmin than some ferocious reptile. “Raiders at the gate?”

He wiped away the drawing with his sleeve and squinted down to the courtyard gate. Through the rain, he watched the duo that entered his town, leaning lazily against the window sill. The flash of luminescent eyes was easy enough to catch, and Hancock smiled. “S’that Nicky? It’s been a while.” His grin grew lopsided and cheshire.

“Not who I was looking at.” Fahrenheit pulled herself away from the wall with a snort.

Hancock’s gaze zipped back to the duo out the window, and he dared a look closer. His face fell into something unreadable, his black eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Pressing hard into the glass, it was as though he wished to phase through it.

“You gonna say ‘hi’ or not?” Fahrenheit asked at his back.

\---

The Rexford was a welcome respite from the rain, though the cold of the hotel foyer was somewhat uncomfortable as Turner stood soaked to the bone. Nick was lucky, though still as soaked as she, and hadn’t even to bothered to feign a shiver.

Turner shook the rain from her hair and wringed what she could from her water-laden coat, kneeling down to rummage through her bag for a dry replacement. At her side, Nick removed his hat and gave it a few taps against his knee. “Don’t forget your handstands.” She mocked as she watched a line of water disappear into the tear of the synth’s neck.

“At least I can’t smell you anymore.” Nick’s crinkled smile turned into a wry grin as he was met with the flick of wet fingers at his face.

Warmed by her now dry shirt, Turner waltzed up the counter and greeted the older woman situated before a wall of keys. Nick, on the other hand, took the time to take Turner in from afar.

The short distance they covered over the course of the day was largely comfortable save the mirelurk problem, and he’d found an enjoyable middle ground with his young companion. Admittedly, he found he liked the back and forth between them, her dry lack of wit and his overabundant, inescapable sarcasm complimentary. They bounced off one another in the time it took to get to Goodneighbor, and he began to worry, began to wonder if it was time already to part ways.

He was still curious. Nick couldn’t just up and abandon a new mystery, though the mystery remained as such for as long as Turner refused to let him in. The same day in, day out life of Diamond City had become drab and predictable, the same cases, same people, same everything. And as much as he hated to admit it, the Prydwen storming over the city might have been the best thing to happen in a blue moon.

Sauntering up to Turner’s side, Nick joined her at the counter. “You heading to the Memory Den?” she asked as she tucked her room key away in her pocket.

“Tryin’ to get rid of me so soon? And here I thought we had something going.” He followed her over to a large protectron butting its way in the corner of the room. Top heavy and rotund, the poor bot walked endlessly into the corner, scuff marks in the chipped paint an indication it had been at it for a while. “Shame no one bothered to turn it around. All it needs is a dunce hat and a stool, and it’ll look right at home.”

Turner laughed at the image Nick had given her, though the context she couldn’t quite grasp. “Hey, buddy.” With a spin, the bot faced her slowly, pirouetting like a heavy set ballet dancer. “One beer, yeah?”

“Here. You. Are. Buddy.” The protectron produced one ice cold bottle from its chassis and grasped it in a clawed hand. It went to hand it to Turner, but the robot’s arm moved right as her hand went to take the bottle. “Here. You.” The bot’s arm moved again, this time to the left, and Nick stifled a laugh as Turner’s hand followed. “Are.” The bottle moved down. “Buddy.”

“Thank you,” Her hands flew every which way to grab the bottle, and finally she succeeded, “Buddy.” Turner turned around to avoid the bot, only to be met with Nick. “You start acting like that, Nick, and I’ll shut you down myself.”

“Gonna turn me into your own personal caddy, then?” he was met with a raspberry. A smirk creased Nick’s cheek and he watched Turner begin the long trek upstairs.

The detective followed behind leisurely, hands in his pockets, and traversed the steps after her. By the third stairwell, though, Turner stopped, her backpack feeling as though it weight had tripled. The synth appeared unaffected by the uphill battle and took the bottle from her hand so she could drop her bag to the floor. “Hope you don’t plan to get too deep in the drink, kid. I don’t think you’d survive the trip back up here.”

She took a deep breath and tugged on the strap of her bag to drag it at her heels, heading toward her room at the very end of the hall on the right-hand side. “Depends how this goes. I say sorry, and he doesn’t take -- I’ll drink. Or I say sorry, and he does take -- and I’ll drink.” She opened her door with a huff and threw her bag inside. “Either way, you find me sleeping in the gutter, you’ll just have to carry me back.”

\---

Turner stood outside the old statehouse, three beers in her gut and a few busted knuckles where she’d punched Buddy to get the other two said beers. But she felt good enough to push the stone of anxiety out of her stomach and apologise.

Firmly, she pushed open the door and tread carefully inside out of the chilly air of the night. Immediately, however, she was greeted by the muzzle of a Tommy gun and her hands flew up instinctually.

“Grisby! It’s me!” She shrunk in on herself and moved out of the way of the gun.

The Tommy gun dropped half a second later and the grizzled jaw and sunken eyes of Grisby, resident hoodlum and bodyguard to the Mayor, stared back. “Turner?” He pulled the cigar from his mouth and grinned through a few missing teeth. “It’s been, what, a month? With the way you and the Mayor were yellin’, I didn’t think you’d ever be back.”

“That’s, uh, kind of why I’m here. I wanna…” Turner wriggled her fingers for emphasis, before shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets. “Just let me up.”  
Grisby laughed and bit on the end of his cigar, winking at Turner knowingly. “Go on. Kiss and make up.”

Rolling her eyes, she gingerly started up the stairs, the old wood dry and creaky. She tiptoed up until she could stare over the banister to the second floor. The room looked empty, but a slip of scarlet cloth lying on the couch was indication enough that she wasn’t alone. Fahrenheit, too, stood outside the room and stared Turner down, a knowing smirk on her face.

“Good luck.” Fahrenheit whispered to her before leaving her post and descending the stairs to the floor below.

Turner drummed her fingers against the floor and forced herself to continue her ascent until she stood in the doorway.

Hancock lay out on the couch, several inhalers of jet strewn about the floor and a number of unlabeled bottles, most likely Bobrov’s moonshine, littered the table. His hat lay on his face, shrouding him from the quiet footsteps that entered and approached. Turner stood at his boots and fidgeted, her neck hot and shoulders tight.

“Hancock.” She started quietly.

The ghoul didn’t move, didn’t budge, the hand propped on his chest slowly rising and falling any indication he was even alive.

“Hancock.” She tried more firmly, and nudged him in the foot. To any other, he might as well have been in a coma. But Turner didn’t relent, and struck his foot again with the butt of her palm. “I know you’re not this much of a lightweight, you ass, come on.”

Hancock once again didn’t respond and Turner trudged forward to throw the hat from his face. The ghoul looked up at her with a heated expression, his clothes disarrayed and eyes narrowed to slits.

He sat up, chest heaving as he stared her down. Neither one of them dared to give in for what felt like an eternity, and Turner wondered if it wasn’t so smart an idea to come back.

She was the first to pull away, though, and forced herself to relax. “Let him be mad.” She thought. “It’s my fault. He’s allowed to be upset.”

Hancock gripped at the sofa cushion before he pried himself from the couch, blinking slowly as he now stood easily above her. An awkward silence sat between them, and the stone that was in Turner’s stomach before she entered had somehow wormed its way back in. She had to relent, had to admit her fault, had to tell the one friend that now sat angrily in front of her just how sorry she was for leaving the way she did.

He pulled the lapels of his coat and adjusted it so it lay straight on his shoulders, tears in the sleeves that hadn’t been there when she left obvious from the crooked stitching and mismatched thread. Without his hat, he wasn’t so large, but even still she found it hard to keep a lock on his face.

And with a shuddering breath, “I’m sorry.” escaped her lips. For a moment, all was quiet in the room, and if she listened close enough, Turner swore she could hear her heart beating and the blood flowing in her veins. Hancock’s face hadn’t changed at the words, those black eyes of his still thin and predator-like, and her gaze fell to the floor.

Tension too great to bear, Turner ran forward and captured Hancock in a hug. She was afraid he’d push her away, throw her off him, but the ghoul instead pulled her against him tightly, cheeked pressed against the top of her head. “I’m sorry.” She mumbled into his neck, words muffled by the collar of his frock.

“You better be, sunshine.” He joked back and received a light punch at his side.

“My plan didn’t work.” Pulling away, Hancock’s hands found their way to her shoulders. “The agents were already dead by the time I showed up.”

“Everyone saw that Brotherhood airship flyin’ over, thought maybe they’d won out or something. Couldn’t save ‘em, huh?” Turner’s head shook solemnly and her hands rose to catch his own.

“Gotta tell Des and Deacon they were right when I get back.” She ran a hand through her hair nervously. “Nick said I should probably wait a while before I head back, though, in case someone’s tailing me.”

“Tryin’ to replace me with Valentine -- knew you Railroad guys had a type.” Hancock grinned and clicked his teeth at her as her face flushed. “Saw you come in with him. What’s up with that?”

“Knock it off. It isn’t like that.” Turner slapped his chest and tried to break free from him, but was only pulled back just as quick.

“What? I wouldn’t mind a threesome.” Her cheeks turned a deep scarlet, and she pushed his face away from nuzzling at her neck. “Let’s head down to the Third Rail. Have a… welcome back party. My tab.” Hancock looped an arm over her shoulder and led her to the stairs.

“Only if my favourite ghoul gets to come along.” Turner batted an eye. Hancock placed a hand against his chest and grinned wide. “I meant Kent Connolly.”

\---

The Memory Den hadn’t helped, hadn’t cleared Nick’s head. It only served in reminding him just what he had to do, what had to be done after two-hundred and ten years of injustice.

He stepped out onto the rain-slicked street under the bright lights of Scollay Square, coat thrown over his shoulder and hat tilted. “Hope the kid got some sleep.” He wondered, and hummed as he avoided a puddle on his way to the Rexford.

“Hey,Valentine!” a man across the street called, and the synth ambled over.

Grisby sat on the stoop of the old statehouse, a bottle of whiskey at his toe and a cigar in his mouth. “Turner told me to tell you that she and the boss are down in the Third Rail.” He chortled deep, “’Course, she called you ‘the old cigarette dispenser’ but don’t tell her I said that. Said it might be a while.”

Nick shook his head at Turner’s lackluster joke. “Figured she might be in bed. Traveled all day, thought she might be out like a light.” He chanced a look up into the sky where the moon now sat. It was well past midnight.

Grisby snorted, “You don’t know Turner, heh.”

He turned to head toward the bar settled beneath the statehouse, the hoodlum behind him. A wheezing laugh followed as he made his way inside, past the ghoul that guarded the door, and down a set of stairs into a refurbished subway platform.

What greeted him was an amusing sight. Turner held Kent Connolly under one arm, her face a bright pink, a bottle of whiskey in her outstretched hand. The small ghoul held tight to the Nuka Cola in his hands and squirmed as she flipped up his hat and gave him a quick kiss to the top of his head.

Turner let Kent scamper away as her eyes fell back to the detective. “It’s my second favourite synth! How’s your motherboard doing?” he followed her as she made her way back over to the couch on which Hancock sat, legs stretched onto the coffee table.

“Having a good time, kid? Good to know moonshine comes in perfume bottles now.” The girl reeked of alcohol, but Nick cut her some slack. It looked like she was having a genuinely good time about it, and given the day they had he couldn’t blame her.

Turner plopped down beside Hancock, who grinned widely as the synth came into view. “Nicky! How’s it goin’, you old bucket of bolts?”

“I take it you were the one she had to apologise to -- glad to see you two made up. I was afraid I’d have to console our friend here if you decided to give her the boot.” Nick took a seat in the couch across the table from the ghoul, laying his coat along the back of it.

“Turner? Nah, but she’s still got some ass-kissing to do.” Hancock rustled her hair.

“I ain’t kissing your ass. Not literally, at least.” She took a long swig of her whiskey and made a face.

“So, how’d you two meet?” Nick’s eyes traveled back and forth from the girl to the ghoul and back again. “Like two peas in a pod.”

The synth had to admit it was amusing to see Turner both in and out of her element. She leaned back against the couch, face to the ceiling. “You’re the detective, Nick, you figure…” Hancock quickly placed a hand on her face to quiet her.

“Go play with Charlie. He’s missed you.”

Turner’s head snapped toward the bar to the Handyman in a bowler hat, and clumsily she climbed over the back of the couch to wander over.

“How’s it been, Nick?” Hancock pulled a tin from the inside of his coat, mentats clattering about inside. “Been kidnapped recently?”

“If you count her, then sure, I’m a willing victim.” From the couch, Nick watched Turner lean over the counter and tap on the backside of Whitechapel Charlie, one of his eyestalks swiveling around to face her. With a towel clamped in one clawed appendage, it shooed her away and sprayed her off the countertop.

“I met our girl here when that Railroad friends of hers was showin’ her the ropes. She got into a fight with MacCready, started tellin’ him off. Stupid shit like ‘your face looks like my butt’. MacCready said ‘well, you must have a pretty nice butt’.” Hancock rolled a few mentats on his tongue. “She clocked him. Gave him a shiner the size of a mutfruit. I liked her style.” He glanced back to the bar where Turner now stood behind it with Charlie, but out of the way of his optics, a bottle of stolen rum in hand. “Troublemaker.”

“You don’t say.” Nick settled back and lit himself a cigarette. “Why’d she have to go and apologise to you? Scary thought if it was the ‘butt’ line again.”

\---

About an hour had passed while Hancock told Nick as to why Turner had disappeared for a month -- from both the Railroad and Goodneighbor. She had told the ghoul her plan to rescue the agents taken hostage by the Brotherhood of Steel and what it entailed: stealing the suit, getting the vertibird, and so on. But what caused such discourse between them was the fact that she refused to let him help. “I still don’t get it.” He told the synth, “She knows I’d do anything for her, but she wouldn’t budge. Kept goin’ on about Metro, about how she didn’t want me to end up like him, and all that.”

“Who’s Metro?” Nick inquired. It was the first time he’d heard the name, but if it caused Turner grief enough not to let her friend help, it had to be something.

“Hell if I know. She still won’t tell me.” Hancock continued, saying they’d started to argue. Why wouldn’t she tell him? What could be so bad that made her refuse the ghoul’s help? It had gotten to the point where Turner gave him an ultimatum.

They were through.

If it meant he stayed behind in Goodneighbor, then they were done.

Hancock sat heavily against his seat and fiddled with an inhaler in his hands. “I was mad for a while. It was bullshit. But it just kind of clicked one day, you know? I just got it.” He took a long hit of jet and held it.

\---

Another hour had passed and exhaustion finally caught up with Turner, and she found herself nestled in the crease of the couch Nick sat on, face buried in her arms. She’d stolen his coat and pulled it around her in her wobbling stupor before nodding off. Hancock, on the other hand, hadn’t slowed down in the slightest and seemed to have his spirits lifted, now mingling with the patrons that remained in the bar.

The synth looked to Turner curled in on herself and prodded her softly. “You spend all that money on a hotel room and end up sleeping here?”

One eye cracked open drowsily. She mumbled something incoherent and rolled over gingerly to place her feet on the floor one at a time.

Nick waved Hancock over, pulling him away from the small group that had gathered around him. “Gonna take sleeping beauty here back to her room before she gets friendly with the couch. Don’t have too much fun without her.”

Hancock was in no condition to ague, but managed to grin nevertheless. “Don’t worry, I will.”

Nick led Turner away from the barroom and toward the stairs, which now seemed like an insurmountable mountain with the topsy turvy high she had brewing in her head. He stood halfway up the stairs and waited, “Come on, kid. One at a time.”

Her climb was slow, and by the time she managed her way to the stop of the steps, Nick was leant leisurely against the wall tightening a loose screw in the palm of his hand.

\---

The night air was brisk as the duo stepped out onto Goodneighbor’s streets, a thin veil of fog wrapped around the buildings after the rain had settled. The street lamps and neon lights of Scollay Square and the Rexford held an eerie quality, glowing like beacons in the floating dew. Turner trekked along at Nick’s side as he led them back across the street, quick to grab her shoulders as she nearly toppled at the curbside. “Good to know you’ve still got your faculties.”

Apparently, Turner was aware enough in her tired stupor to smack at his arm as they entered the Rexford. And it wasn’t until then that Nick realized her room was on the top floor. At the rate it took her to trudge up the stairs from the Third Rail, she might see her room within the next decade or so.

Biting his tongue, he could only laugh at the predicament. “Alright, kid, come on.” If they were in any other place but Goodneighbor, one might have been alarmed to see a patchwork synth carrying a nearly passed out girl up several flights of stairs to her room, but the one ghoul they passed -- fedora and wool coat faded to a musty yellow, and strangely a full head of red hair -- was kind enough to open the door for them.

“Must be what a pack Brahmin feels like.” Nick groaned and settled Turner down on the bed. One day together and already he was whisking her away back to her room like they’d known each other a dog’s age. He sighed and sat on the mattress behind her knees to gather his thoughts.

He supposed there wasn’t much need for him to stick around, not after they’d made it to Goodneighbor safely. But he wanted to know what Turner was running from, wanted to know what good she was doing in the Railroad. Hell, in one day alone she had already managed to give him more entertainment than he had in months. She was turning out to be a surprising mystery he hadn’t quite deduced yet.

But most of all, she was someone to talk to -- not Ellie, not Bobrov, not Takahashi.

No, Nick decided then. He’d stick around for just a little while longer.

\---

Paladin Riddik stood at the very edge of the vertibird’s cabin and allowed the wind to whip at their cape, the exhilarating chill of excitement running up and down their spine. Three others sat within, ready for the mission Elder Maxson had handed down to them, armed to the teeth and ready for an assault.

The night had just barely given way to the light of morning, a slip of glowing gold on the line of the horizon. Riddik gazed deeply into the light and trembled with anticipation.

The dawn would bring with it the fall of Ticonderoga.

And the beginning of the end for Ridley Turner.

\---

Up Next:

Chapter 5: Raid on Ticonderoga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turner's kind of drunken stupor is based off of how I generally react when I drink. I don't drink in public, mind you, but I've meandered about my house enough times to know stairs are the end all be all.


	5. Raid on Ticonderoga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all your support and fan art of Turner uwu You're amazing!
> 
> This is my longest chapter yet! Over 5,000 words!
> 
> Once again, I'm the only one who proofreads this story, so if you see a grammar or spelling mistake, please tell me!

\--

From the hovering vertibird descended four individuals, and each fall to the ground ended with an earthquake-like rumble, the concrete beneath their metal-clad feet cracked and indented. 

Paladin Riddik stood tall, their cape billowing out from beneath their pauldron, blue and gold, regal in a land of muted greys and browns. The three knights joined the Paladin at their side, roman numerals Four, Nine, and Eleven on their cuirasses respectively. 

With augmented power sledge in hand, Riddik trudged forward toward the gates of Ticonderoga. The morning sun cast a ray of light across the doorway like a beacon to the Brotherhood Paladin, and with one swing of practised ease they slammed through the doors.

Four ran ahead and began the search of the lower floor, Gatling laser readied, while Nine and Eleven began the work of prying open the locked doors of the elevator. Riddik was immobile, statuesque as they waited. 

Four reappeared as a squeal of metal erupted from the elevator and the doors stood open. There came a flicker of electricity and the elevator above descended.

\---

“Who called the elevator?” High Rise questioned, and warily searched between the two synths that stood in the foyer. Eyes feverish as he received no answer, he ran across the room and began to pull a couch toward the elevator doors. “Barricade it!”

The synths scurried to find something with which to block the elevator, another couch, an end table, and several chairs finding their way in front of the doors. “Go tell the others! Hide!” High Rise barked, and one of the synths ran from sight and up the stairs, the other disappearing down a hole in the floor.

All was eerily quiet for a moment as the elevator chimed, the light above the door a faded, dingy yellow. High Rise readied himself with a pistol, two Railroad agents and the synth from upstairs readying themselves with whatever weapons they could find.

But to no avail.

The elevator doors opened and with them the barricade parted. Splinters and debris flew from the doorway, Riddik’s jet-powered sledge easily breaking through. Two fingers outstretched, Four, Nine, and Eleven burst past Riddik, weapons firing blindly. The air was filled with gun fire and ozone, and an agent fell immediately, torn apart. 

The others ran to escape the initial weapon barrage, mini guns firing and laser weapons blasting. High Rise and the others vanished up the stairs, but the Brotherhood followed like wolves on the hunt. 

There was nowhere to run, save a quick jump from the window and an even quicker death. High Rise stood before his fellow agent and runaway synth, weapon drawn and trembling. Riddik appeared at the doorway and ducked to gain entrance, power sledge laid against the palm of their hand. 

“You can’t have them! And neither can the Institute!” High Rise bellowed and fired a single shot at the Paladin. The bullet ricocheted before rocketing out the window, glass filling the space beneath. Riddik tilted their head, intrigued by the pitiful display, but amused all the same by the attempt.

But before another shot could be fired, High Rise was thrown to the side, the power sledge easily smashing against his ribs with enough force to knock down a behemoth. Riddik grasped the man by the neck and dragged him across the room to the shattered window, a bloodied gargle in High Rise’s throat as he was thrust outward to dangle freely in the air. 

High Rise struggled weakly, legs kicking and arms grabbing futilely at Riddik’s arm. The wind whipped around him, but the air could not reach his lungs. The Paladin glared down the length of their arm to the Railroad agent, a quiet contemplation in their stance. Perhaps they would pull him back in, question him until his dying breath. But he wouldn’t have it. 

High Rise spat, blood-filled and venomous. 

He hadn’t even the strength to scream as he fell.

“You’re a monster!” the synth cried. The sound of weapon fire could be heard in the lower floors, followed by the muffled mewls of human and synth alike. 

Riddik pried away from the window and placed their right hand against their chest as though offended by the comment. The wind whipped their cape about and the glass crunched beneath their powered frame, and slowly, agonizingly so, their powered sledge rose. 

The synth and agent backed away into the far wall, and then into the corner. 

There was nowhere they could run.

Riddik raised their sledge up on high, and struck down, one final scream ringing out.

\---

Turner groaned against her would-be pillow, the scent of cigarettes jostling her awake. Tiredly, her eyes opened through the worst headache she’d felt in a long while, more painful than the one she had previously from her jump off the Prydwen. 

The room was dark except for one weak lamp in the corner, which was enough to sting her eyes and surge through her temples. Draped across her was Nick’s coat, but the synth was nowhere to be found, though that certainly explained the cigarette smell. She sat up groggily and searched about as regret settled in. 

She drank too much last night, that much was certain, and she vaguely remembered Hancock just as inebriated as she forgiving her. Then there was Kent, and Whitechapel Charlie, and she had to laugh through the pain in her head. 

But she stopped suddenly with a croak, and pulled at the lapels of Nick’s coat. “Ah, shit.” Her hair became more of a mess as her fingers violently rubbed at her head. “Please don’t tell me.” She pondered, “I barely know the guy.” Would he leave his coat, though? Or did she take it? The latter was more her style the longer she thought about it, and she felt somewhat better at the revelation.

Too many thoughts bombarded her at once and she fell back against the mattress with a moan. The cracks in the ceiling shifted and changed shape, the meager light in the corner too much to bear. 

She stayed that way for what must have been an hour before crawling out of bed. With the detective’s coat wrapped around her shoulders, she glanced into the hallway, left and right, but saw no sign of him. Maybe he’d found a nice outlet to plug himself in to. One with a view.

Stumbling out the door, Turner began down the hall, passing by a ghoul in a faded, yellow coat as he sat outside his room. “Hey, Rep.” she slurred, her hand on the wall for support. 

He laughed at the sight of her trudging along, “You were a mess last night. Friend of yours had to haul you back here.”

Turner looked to the ghoul as he fixed his coat. “How bad of a mess? We talking ‘singing ditties’ or ‘crawling on the floor’?”

He thought with a grin, “Enough that he had to carry you in here. Pre-war, you’d think you two’d been married.” He laughed at the blood rushing to her cheeks.

Turner tried to stammer an excuse, but she could only huff and continue on her way, her cheeks ablaze. 

The trek down the stairs exasperated her headache, and immediately she sought relief. Good thing the Rexford live-in junkie was more than happy to provide some med-x. 

“Hey. There. Buddy.” Buddy the beer bot clanked up as she deposited the empty bottle in the bin, the modified protectron making its way from the corner of the room to topple furniture on its way to her. A metal bucket was a helpless victim of its brutal rampage as it now wore it as a rather fashionable boot. 

“Hey, Buddy. No, no beer. You got Nuka?” Turner put a hand out to close the compartment door on Buddy’s chest, only to feel an algid breeze from within him. Hobbling closer she placed her palm on his, well, she supposed it might have been his head, or maybe torso. It was hard to tell given he was simply a walking brewery. 

His metal surface was ice cold, and immediately she placed her forehead against it. Blissful relief met her, his frigid hull a balm to her pulsating headache, and combined with the med-x she visibly relaxed. 

“Want. To. Hear. A. Joke. Buddy?” the bot quipped, seemingly unaffected.

The scene was bizarre, to say the least: A young woman in a tattered, oversized trench coat that obviously didn’t belong to her making friendly with the resident beer bot with a bucket on its foot.  
That might as well have been the joke. 

“If I knew you liked your bots big-boned, I would have opted for a different model.” Her eyes snapped open and landed on Nick, dressed down to his slacks and mostly buttoned shirt. Attached to his suspenders, just under one arm, lay his pistol, the arm itself mostly exposed metal and wiring. 

Turner didn’t pull away from Buddy, and instead planted her cheek against the cold of its hull. Nick laughed, “Hell of a hangover, I take it?”

“I half expected to wake up next to Hancock.” A shiver ran down her spine from the cold, and she opted for her other cheek. 

“He was still goin’ at it by the time you called it quits. Didn’t want you to wake up with Charlie breathing down your neck.”

“Hancock breathing down my neck would have been just as embarrassing.” Turner thought aloud and allowed Buddy to walk freely, the frost on its exterior melted where she’d laid her head.

“Coat’s a bit big for you.” Nick chuckled around a cigarette. “I didn’t have much say in the matter, come to think of it.”

The end of his coat nearly met her ankles, and she was struck with a burst of self-consciousness. “Yeah, well…” she couldn’t think of a witty quip and shrugged out of the coat. Handing it over to him, she missed the warmth already, rubbing her arms at its absence. 

Nick’s skeletal hand worked as he buttoned the coat only once at his waist and tied the rest off with his belt. His metallic digits slid almost fluidly, clinking quietly with every subtle movement. Turner wondered how his arm became so bare, his inner workings exposed to the world. He was old, to be sure, Gen 2 or so, most of his plastic skin off-colour and torn. He didn’t have the “luxuries” of an Institute tune-up. 

But she could easily tell the difference between him and another Gen 2 -- the way he carried himself, the softness of his eyes, that side-smile that--

“Penny for your thoughts, kid?” he pulled her from her inner musings, a knowing smirk on his face.

“What’s a penny?” she blundered, caught in her mindless staring. “Gimme a cap and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Must have left my wallet at home. Fresh out.” Nick followed her to the door. “What’s on your schedule today? If it involves giving Whitechapel a hug next, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”

He was doing it on purpose. It was obvious. Turner would hug K.L.E.O.’s strange robo-bosom before she gave the clockwork detective the satisfaction of egging her. And look him dead in the eye all the while. “I’m gonna be heading out tomorrow back to HQ. Guess that means you’ll be waddling back to Diamond City to your desk job.”

“Eager to be rid of me, huh? Sure you’re not hiding somethin’?”

\---

If ever there was a moment Turner wished she had a pair of Deacon’s sunglasses, now would be the time. The midday sun streamed brightly on the battered pavement, small puddles glistening and the twisted and torn metal of decimated Boston shining. She pulled her hood down low over her eyes and groaned. The med-x hadn’t fully gotten rid of her headache, not yet at least. 

She ambled down the street, the synth lumbering along behind her like a new shadow or lost puppy. A quite large, most certainly heavy, metal puppy. She headed toward the Memory Den, and leapt into a shallow puddle on the sidewalk. The water flew up and onto her legs, cold and sudden, and Nick stopped short as it nearly hit his pants. 

He merely stepped over the puddle with one long stride and continued on behind her into Scollay Square, undeterred by her attempt to soil him. 

If this was to be her last day, for a while, in Goodneighbor, she might as well take advantage of it.

The faint smell of mold and rotting wood filled the air as Turner stepped into the Memory Den, the wall to her right wet with rain water that seeped through the ceiling overnight. Nick sauntered in behind her, eyes alight in the dim lounge.

“Here to see an old flame, kid?” he chuckled through a fresh cigarette and took a long draw. 

“Place is gonna be in flames you keep smoking.” Turner went to yank the cigarette from his mouth playfully, but the synth pulled his chin up to avoid her. 

“It’s like a wet match in here.” His voice came out muffled as he held the cigarette between his teeth, “Much ado about nothin’.” He chided. 

Turner huffed and turned to continue deeper into the cool of the Den, waltzing past several memory loungers like she’d been in there a million and one times before.

“Well, well, looked what the cat dragged in. It’s been a while.” Irma, resident couch-lounger and nicely dressed lay-about, called to Turner as she approached. “Are you the one who brought our Nick Valentine back to Goodneighbor? Naughty thing.”

Turner stuffed her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, ready to say something. But Nick beat her to it. “She bribed me with some grade-A oil. What can I say, I’m a lightweight.” The jab at Turner’s time in the drink the previous night wasn’t missed, not when the synth winked at her all the while. 

“Should have used a magnet.” She replied and sat down beside Irma on the couch, blowing a raspberry at the synth. 

“So, here to use a lounger? Free of charge, just for you, kitten.”

“Only if you keep the detective away from me while I’m in there. No freebies.” Turner affirmed with a smirk.

“I’m hardly a peeping tom, kid. Wouldn’t mind seeing some of your dirty laundry, though.” Double entendre or no, Turner’s ears burned and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I’ll mind my Ps and Qs.”

\---

Turner settled down in the memory lounger as far as she could get from Nick. Damn the designers, whoever they were, for making the pods see-through, where everyone and a detective could see. She felt exposed and protected all at the same time as she laid back into the softness of the seat, the screen in front of her nothing but a test pattern and white noise. 

Turner gripped the chair tightly and forced herself to think of a “fond” memory and nothing else. Metro, Hancock, anything. She stared at the screen and thought hard, her eyes growing heavy. 

\---

Nick stood alongside Irma at the far end of the room, respecting Turner’s wishes to be alone, if just for a bit. “She used to come in here every day.” Irma started as she poured herself a drink. “Poor thing was addicted. Had to pull her from the lounger more than once.”

“You don’t say.” Nick mused. Turner had her own memories to be sure, and he had his… and another’s. How many times had he been there? He’d lost count. Hell, how many days had he lost when he tried to force himself to forget? What business the kid had was hers, and he was going to respect that no matter how his curiosity gnawed at his circuits. “What can you tell me about her? She’s not exactly an open book.”

Irma stared at him through her thick lashes, “Nick, you know better than to ask a woman for gossip.” She sat back down on her chaise and sipped at her drink. “She came crawling into Goodneighbor maybe a year ago with that friend of hers. You should have seen the girl, poor thing.” Nick sat in an empty chair, taking his hat into his lap. “She should have known better, coming in dressed in her Brotherhood best. Made it into the square before the Neighborhood Watch jumped on her.”

“I take it the Railroad doesn’t have uniforms.” Nick added. “Must have ended well -- the way she and Hancock were carrying on last night.”

Irma nodded and winked, “The Mayor took a liking to her. That Railroad friend of hers stepped in, explained things. That mercenary, MacCready, tried to start a fight with her during the whole debacle.”

Nick chuckled, “Pretty much what Hancock told me. Good to know he wasn’t lying through his teeth.”

“But I hear tell she used to have a beau. Nice boy.” Nick sat forward in his seat. Perhaps it was this Metro he’d heard about from Hancock. “Oh, but I know better than to go and share another woman’s ‘dirty laundry’, Nick.” She grinned wryly and took a long sip of her drink. “After all, it’s not my place to share. Gossip is bad for the reputation.”

“You were always the tease, Irma.”

\---

Turner stood atop the parapets of the Citadel and overlooked the Hudson River. The wreckage of an Enclave vertibird lay submerged in the water, one propeller blade, bent and crooked, protruding the surface. Her polished power armour gleamed in the sunlight, but lay heavily on her shoulders -- too large for her body.

She smiled, however, at the calm that overtook the Capital Wasteland, and for once in a long while she felt relaxed. 

They’d prevailed over the Enclave at the Jefferson Memorial, destroyed Raven Rock, and shut down “President” John Henry Eden. And soon, they would attack Adams Air Force Base and push the remnants back out west where they belonged, back to where both the Brotherhood and the New California Republic would fully destroy them. Even the drifters of Junk Town and Shady Sands could do a number on them at this point. 

Arthur Maxson strode up the steps and took a stand beside her, head held high and eyes bright. He was so young then, his cheek devoid of the jagged scar Turner had come to know and his eyes wide with wonder. There was still an air of authority about him, his shoulders squared and stature tall -- even then he demanded attention and admiration. The weight of the Elder’s mantle had yet to be laid on him.

“Liberty Prime is making good progress.” His voice came through faint and tinny, a fault of the memory lounger. “Its frame has been rebuilt, and we’ve nearly repaired its optics.” 

Turner gave Maxson a look of worry, “What about Adams Air Force Base?” she asked. “We don’t have anything strong enough to take down that many vertibirds, not to mention the crawler. Even those hellfire units put a lot of guys out of commission.” Her gaze went back to the vertibird in the river. “We have to get that Tesla cannon. I mean, without it, how’re we gonna…”

“Stop worrying, Ridley.” Maxson affirmed and gave her a genuine smile. She couldn’t help but let her shoulders droop. “The Brotherhood will prevail. We’ve got the Enclave on the run. They’ve lost their base here, their president, and now their colonel. They’re through.”

If only Turner could believe that. No matter how much Maxson believed in the Brotherhood and its strength, she could never allow herself to think they were indestructible. That’s what the Enclave thought, even back west with the oil rig, and there in Virginia. The only reason they’d claimed the Jefferson Memorial in the first place was by mere surprise. 

“I forget you’re a Maxson. Hard headed as a damn Brahmin.” Turner shoved him in the shoulder, but he barely moved despite her power armour’s additional strength. “And shave that beard off. What’re tryin’ to do, impress Sarah?”

Maxson raised a hand to scratch at the dark stubble around his chin. It wasn’t unattractive, but Turner poked fun at him any chance she could. “It’s been years since I liked her. I was ten. It was a boyish crush.” Of course he would try to brush it off -- his childhood crush was the Elder’s daughter, why wouldn’t he deny it. “Should have never told you.”

Heavy footfalls came up the stairway behind them, slow and steady. Maxson hid a knowing smirk in the collar of his coat as Turner spun to the noise. 

An Enclave soldier appeared at the head of the stairs, larger and fiercer than anything the Brotherhood had in stock. She went for the pistol at her hip instinctually and prepared to fire, but Maxson placed a heavy hand on her wrist. “Very funny, Riddik.” He congratulated them.  
Turner’s head snapped from Maxson to the “Enclave” soldier before them. 

Riddik, rising star of the Brotherhood of Steel with devout loyalty abound, sashayed forward in stolen power armour, plucked from an Enclave commander as they cleared out the Jefferson Memorial. They raised their arms and took as deep a bow as the armour would let them, their eyes trained on Turner. The Enclave helmet’s eyes glistened, angled and devious, a deep gold in the morning light. 

“It was my suggestion.” Maxson informed her as Turner still seemed unconvinced. “What better way to insult the Enclave than to take their technology as our own.” He pulled away from her side and clasped Riddik’s hand firmly. “How goes the purifier?”

Riddik’s hands rose to take off their helmet and answer, but stopped short as a young squire called out from the stairwell. “Maxson! The Elder! Elder Lyons!”

Maxson pushed past Riddik and took the child by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, squire?” he pressed feverishly, the happiness of the moment gone. 

“The elder… he’s…”

Riddik was the first to speed off, leaping from the parapets in a single bound to the ground below. Maxson and Turner followed close behind, taking the stairs with the squire leading the way. 

The Citadel was like a disturbed hive, frantic and frenzied. Maxson and Turner ushered on with Riddik leading the way to the Elder’s quarters, pushing past the scribes that crowded around the door. 

With the door closed, the three of them stood silently, Sarah Lyons at her father’s bedside.  
Turner shook with anxiety and struggled to breathe. 

The Elder was dead. 

Maxson’s eyes fell to the floor and then slowly rose. His face hardened, his brows knitted, and his hands clenched. Why now? Just when they were so close to winning this war on the Enclave. He sucked in a shaking breath and walked forward to Sarah, who now stood with her hand to her chest in salute. 

The air was too thick for Turner, a tension she couldn’t stand pulling her down. She eased back a single step to remove herself from the room and the situation, but a large hand caught her pauldron. 

Riddik stared her down and held her in place, and she swore she could hear the metal beneath their hand creak. That terrifying helmet froze her on the spot, those golden eyes that bore into her -- daring her to take another step. She stayed that way for a moment, caught in their gaze, and it was as though Riddik could see right through her. 

“Riddik, that’s enough.” She broke away as Maxson scolded them. Taking a step back she turned and left the room, but her eyes never left Riddik.

Those golden lenses trained on her, even as the door shut with a final click. 

\---

The memory lounger hissed as it opened, and Turner sat up groggily. That was hardly the memory she wished to have, but there were certainly others that pained her more. She couldn’t lie back down, couldn’t continue any further that day lest Irma scold her. 

Her legs wobbled as she stepped out. So much for having a good time. 

On the far end of the room, Nick conversed with Irma and another woman, Doctor Amari. And though she couldn’t hear them from where she was, she watched Amari shake her head and waggle a finger at the detective. One would think she was scolding a child, the way he sat with his hat in his lap, head bowed. 

Given a much needed chance to breathe, Turner tiptoed her way to the front door, the cool air a welcome respite to her senses. She ruffled her hair with a groan and sat on the curb, toes pointed inward and arms curled around her knees. 

Maybe Hancock was awake. And maybe she could gather enough courage to tell him she would be leaving tomorrow. She would hate to “accidentally” drop a bucket of water on his head. 

Come to think of it, Turner never understood the wet ghoul thing he went on about. Maybe she was just nose-blind to--

“Psst.”

Turner rubbed her nose and glanced around. 

‘Pssttt.” It came again, this time louder. 

She peered over her shoulder to a man leant against the wall of the Memory Den, a pair of dark sunglasses on his nose, and a bald head so smooth you’d mistake it for the sun when the light hit it just right. 

Turner’s eyed narrowed but she didn’t say a word as she stood and nonchalantly walked up to him.  
“Do you have a Geiger counter?” he asked plainly, though the smirk forming at the corner of his lips betrayed him. 

Her face fell and she poked him with one finger in the chest. “Mine’s up your a--”

He stopped her short with a hand over her mouth, “I need to talk to you.” He pointed his head to the right, toward an alley in between the Den and the Rexford. 

Turner was quick to follow.

\---

“Looks like our little friend is trying to get rid of you.” Irma joked with Nick now that he sat distracted and somewhat defeated by Doctor Amari and her scolding. 

The synth placed his hat back on his head and searched around the Den for any sign of Turner, but to no avail. “She thought she was being sneaky. I wasn’t lying when I called her naughty.” Irma shook her head and leaned heavily against the back of her chaise. “If you were hoping to keep track of her, you picked the wrong girl.”

Nick stood and straightened his coat, “I’ll try to remember that. It’s been nice, Irma.”

He made his way to the door, his gait quick and collar pulled high. “Don’t be a stranger.” She called to him as he disappeared out the door and into the open air. 

Doctor Amari had refused his offer to have his memories looked at again. She claimed she wouldn’t risk playing brain surgeon with his memories if it put the detective down, and maybe this time for the count. 

Even Irma insisted. He’d been there for hours the previous day while Turner had her fun with Hancock, and she worried even that long had been too much. 

But he shook away the thought and looked this way and that down the road. Turner had managed to wriggle her way out from under his thumb when he wasn’t looking, and he certainly hadn’t taken a liking to it. 

Nick rummaged through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and opened the small paper box when finally he found it. His face fell, however, when he realized it was empty, discarding the box to the side in favour of flicking the end of his lighter up and down more than a few times. 

He began to make his way back to the Rexford, accidentally stepping in the puddle he’d so easily avoided earlier and soiling the end of his trousers. “Damn it.” He shook the water from his leg. His day just got better and better.

But as fate would have it, he looked up from his wet shoes and pants and down the alley way between the two buildings, a short crop of dark hair and a dirtied coat all-too-familiar.

Forgoing his sudden discomfort, Nick followed silent and almost cat-like. His experience in snooping worked wonders when he needed it to (except for the accident in the vault), and it paid off now as he watched Turner take the corner and disappear. 

The alley was a dead end, the synth detective knew, and either way he’d catch her. He sidled to the edge of the corner and peered around it, still hiding to the best of his abilities. 

What he hadn’t expected to see was Turner and an unknown, the two of them standing fairly close -- maybe an old friend, Nick thought. He’d seen his fair share of shady characters, and the one in the sunglasses fit the bill well enough. 

\---

Turner stopped dead in her tracks as the man in glasses pulled her close, his face, or what she could make of it, grave. “Spit it out, Deacon. What’s wrong?”

Deacon took a moment to search for any ears on the walls, pulling her in close by the shoulders. “Ticonderoga was attacked.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, aghast. “What about High Rise? Lily? Angela? Are they okay?” Turner grasped Deacon’s collar, “Deacon, what happened?” She grew frantic and tightened her hold. First the Prydwen and now this. If this was Deacon’s idea of a joke, he was worse off in the head than she thought.

What if the Institute was finally catching on? What if coursers stormed Ticonderoga and took back the runaway synths? What if--

Deacon held a finger to his lips and nodded his head toward the end of the alleyway, shushing not only Turner but her thoughts as well. 

“Come out. I know you’re there.” He called. He pulled Turner in front of him like an unwilling shield, peering out from behind her head. 

All was quiet as Deacon and Turner stood in silence and waited.

Nick cursed inwardly. “Maybe I’m not as good at this sneaking thing as I thought. That would explain the vault, then.” He relinquished his hiding spot and stepped out into the open, hands raised in surrender. “It’s alright, kid. It’s just me.”

A small smile crossed her face as the detective strode forward and joined them. “Don’t shoot.” He joked and lowered his hands into his pockets. “Well? Introduce me to your friend.”

Turner looked from one man to the other and rolled her eyes. “Nick, this is Deacon. Deacon, this is…”

“Nick Valentine. Diamond City.” Deacon finished for her, blowing a small raspberry at Turner as she made a face at him. She blew one back, louder and wetter. 

“So that’s where she gets it. Good to know it came from somewhere.” 

“She has strange bedfellows,” he thought, the two of them standing comfortably close. “I was worried ‘kid’ might have been too perfect a nickname.” Nick took a step back as the both of them blew a raspberry in his direction. 

He was starting to think the Railroad might have a few screws loose, and he wasn’t talking about the synths.

“Seriously, though, we have to check it out.” Deacon became serious again. “Whoever did it might still be around, but we gotta take the chance.”

“Trouble on the home front? Need an extra hand?” Nick raised his exposed right hand in jest, but Deacon took him seriously. He pushed Turner forward toward the detective, and moved her arm out like a puppet master. 

“We could use another gun.” He whispered to her as she glared daggers at him. “You and I both know.”

Turner ground her teeth and had her hand thrust forth against her own volition. “What about Diamond City?” she questioned the synth as he lowered his hand near to hers. “Don’t you have a job you have to get back to?” Deacon shook her arm, her hand flopping about lazily. 

“Maybe I’m not ready to go back to my cushy ‘desk job’ just yet, kid.” 

Deacon wasn’t giving Turner much of a choice in the matter, and neither was Nick.

It wasn’t that she minded the detective. She had prepared herself to be alone after today, was all, heading back to the HQ in her lonesome -- probably to be chewed out. 

Deacon just about turned that idea on its head. 

Wriggling her arm around once more, Turner relented and took Nick’s hand. 

Instantly, she was struck by cold metal, but she shook it nevertheless. It felt strange at first, those bare digits, all angles and lines, digging into her palm, but she quickly grew used to it. 

“I’m going to kill you after--” Turner whispered to Deacon.

A raspberry cut her short, this time from the detective. 

\---

Up next:

Chapter 6: Ticking Time Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riddik is my monster baby


	6. Ticking Time Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story reached a 100 Kudos! Holy crap! Your support makes me keep writing, and I hope I don't let you down! If you wanna throw a prompt or something you wanna see in the story my way, my Tumblr is Esuerc.Tumblr.com!
> 
> Remember, I'm the only one proofreading this story, so if you catch any grammar or spelling mistakes, please tell me!

\---

“How does a synth even blow a raspberry, anyway?” Turner stomped up the stairs of the old statehouse and stood for a moment on the stoop. “Their tongues aren’t even wet.” She made a face at the thought and suddenly shuddered, “Are they?”

A sound much like “blech” left her mouth and she made sure it was loud enough so the duo across the street at the opening of the alleyway could hear her. Deacon whispered something to Nick that earned him a laugh, no doubt at Turner’s expense, and the two of them looked at her in unison. 

Another shared laugh erupted, and she was quick to run inside the statehouse, door slamming shut firmly behind her. Grisby sat against the wall in a rickety wooden chair and jumped at the noise but did not wake. His hat was tipped low over his face and a loud snore sat in his nose. As quietly as she could, Turner tiptoed up the stairs to Hancock’s room, where she found the ghoul seated on the coffee table. 

A pair of handcuffs spun around one of his fingers as he joked with Fahrenheit, and the guard was the first to notice her with a nod. Hancock caught Turner with a grin and continued to spin the cuffs, his smile crooked and devious. 

“Hey there, sunshine. Had yourself a time there last night.” He leant back on the table, legs splayed. “Not as much fun as we could have had, but…” The handcuffs spun off his finger and clattered noisily on the floor amongst some glass bottles. His smile stretched into a forced grin. Whatever coy trick Hancock was trying to tempt her with failed miserably, and he knew it. 

He popped what was left of his lips and tapped his hand against the table top, “What’cha need?”

Turner stood awkwardly in the doorway and played with a loose thread on her coat. “I need to talk to you.” She replied with a huff.

“Talk or ‘talk’?” The ghoul played but pushed himself forward when Turner’s brows furrowed. “Alright, alright.” He slapped his knee and stood. “Don’t work too hard.” He told Fahrenheit as he placed an arm around Turner’s shoulders, leading her across the hall toward the balcony. 

\---

Deacon pushed his way into Turner’s room at the Rexford and waltzed in like he owned the place, instantly making his way over to her discarded bag of supplies. Stuck at the doorway, Nick watched the Railroad agent rummage through Turner’s things. “She actually packed right this time. You help her?” Deacon’s tone was deadpan.

Nick had his time of sorting through someone’s things, he didn’t care to admit, but he didn’t think he’d be standing aside and allowing someone else to do it. This Deacon character seemed a decent enough sort, however, though the detective’s first impression was somewhat skewed. 

“She didn’t pack a teddy bear? You sure that’s the real Turner?” Deacon quipped.

The detective snorted, “Sorry to say, Teddy was lost in the war. Kid decided the mirelurks would make better use of him.”  
Deacon’s face was unreadable. “Did you hold a service?”

“Kid wouldn’t have it.” Perhaps the Railroad had more than just a few screws loose -- maybe a few gears, cogs, and springs, too.

Deacon shrugged his shoulders and sloppily replaced Turner’s things back in her bag. He then proceeded to flop down on the mattress, dust flying up from the bed frame to float about in the air. “Doesn’t surprise me she ran into you of all people.” He started, and Nick finally walked into the room to stand at the wall.

“What makes you say that?”

“She always gets into trouble with bots. PAM, Glory, Metro, you I’m guessing. There was this sentry bot once,” Deacon waved his hand like he was regaling a tale of majesty, “she managed to convince the thing to let her ride it. Told her it belonged to the Cabots, and we couldn’t keep it. That ghoul of theirs would have her hide.” He rolled on the bed to lie on his side, “Then she stepped on the grass and all hell broke loose.”

“She was hugging a protectron this morning. Told her she was hurting my feelings.” Nick admitted.

“Oh, don’t tell her that. She’ll hug every bot from here to the Glowing Sea.” The Railroad agent flicked the end of his nose knowingly. “Would probably go in to the Sea if she knew there was a bot at the end of it.”

“But no hugs for me, huh? Figures.”

\---

Hancock sat heavily against the railing of the balcony overlooking the small courtyard, gazing lazily down at the smoke lifting from the grates. “You wanna leave already? It’s only been a day.” He wasn’t complaining, no, no. He’d told Turner time and time before she could live her life how she wanted, it only hurt when she tried to shut him out of it. 

She nudged him with her hip and stood as close as space would allow, “Ticon was one of our main safe houses. I have to check it out. Deacon says one of the Gen 3s that was there managed to escape and get to HQ to tell us.” She joined him in watching the smoke, waving her hand out to catch the wisps unsuccessfully. “Said something about Brotherhood armour.”

Turner pulled at Hancock’s sleeve when he didn’t respond, “It can’t be a coincidence. The agents they captured might have given away valuable info. We have to at least check.”

The ghoul turned his face from her, eyes half-idled and face fallen, “You do you, sunshine. You know I ain’t gonna tell you what to do.” His tone told her he was far from fine. 

She pulled his sleeve up over her head and ducked under his arm to hug his waist, face buried in the crook of his neck. “It won’t be like last time.” She coerced him, or at least tried, but he made no move to return the embrace. “I’ll come back for a while after I check in. Promise.”

Hancock pulled away from the railing to faced her, his face neutral. But it easily broke into a smirk, the mask he tried to hold falling. “Only if you make it up to me.”

He tugged her forward despite her weak attempts to stay put, and held her flush against him. “Pssh.” Turner pursed her lips through a grin and yanked his ridiculous hat down over his eyes as he leant in closer. “I’ll get you a Red Menace holotape. That’s enough to keep you occupied.”

Hancock’s smile grew wide even though he couldn’t see her, and he futilely tried to nip at her neck -- unsuccessful as she squirmed in his hold, “Knock it off!”

\---

Turner strode up to Nick and Deacon who stood waiting just in front of the main gate of Goodneighbor. Bag slung over her shoulder and feet dragging on the pavement, she headed straight for the Railroad agent and punched him square in the arm. He gave pause like his mind was calculating some terrible problem and then cried out in “pain”, falling to his knees. 

Deacon’s charade continued for a minute before Turner slapped his head playfully, “Come on, you’re being dramatic.”

A groan left Deacon’s throat, but just as soon as it appeared it stopped on a dime. “Okay.”

Nick shook his head to and fro and laughed quietly at the display between Turner and her friend. It surprised him how light her demeanor became with the agent’s appearance, despite the dire situation he brought with him. The news of Ticonderoga was a sudden and equally unexpected hit for her, obviously, and he noticed how she now tried to keep her spirits up. 

Wiping the dirt from his jeans, Deacon took one step forward. “We should get there by night.” He began and ushered them toward the gate with the wave of his hand, “That way the boogieman won’t get his claws into little Ridley.” He avoided the punch to his stomach as she quickly walked past him.

“Still afraid of the dark, kid?” Nick’s turn to yank her chain appeared, now that she walked between the two of them.

She barely made it to his shoulders, but that didn’t stop her from tilting her head back to hold her chin high. “No.”

Nick and Deacon shared a look and a light laugh, and that was enough to make her walk faster and away from them.

But the air grew quiet instantly as Turner came to a dead stop, her jaw lax with disbelief. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe the audacity of what she saw.

On the remains of an old bookstore’s front steps the Mayor of Goodneighbor sat, a heavy bag on his back. In his hand, he flicked a large silver coin up and down, some old world bauble he’d found in the decay. Turner remained where she was, her face switching from surprised to elated and back again.

“Didn’t think I’d actually stay, did ya, Sunshine?” Hancock threw the coin back into the pile of refuse beside the stairs and stood. With a swagger in his step he walked up to Turner, and tapped her gingerly on the nose. “Wasn’t gonna let you leave me behind this time. Gotta try a lot harder than that to convince me.” He circled around her and gave the synth and agent a wink. He drew close and whispered in her ear, “I’m in it for the long haul.”

Turner bristled but didn’t move. “What about Goodneighbor?”

“Fahrenheit’s got it under control.” Hancock took her shoulders in hand, “No one in power should be comfortable for long, and I was getting a little too comfy.”

The party moved past her and continued on. Deacon’s tongue sticking from his mouth did little to ease the annoyance. 

Turner stood there for a moment and adjusted her bag. She wasn’t going to get him that holotape now. Maybe a knuckle to his head and some addictol. 

And his hat might just disappear. Mysteriously.

\---

The sun had fallen and all was eerily quiet outside of Ticonderoga. No super mutants, gunshots, or explosions sounded in the din, and the four of them waited in the shadow of a collapsed building. 

“I’m gonna scope it out. You stay here.” Deacon rustled Turner’s hair and waddled out from their hiding spot, making sure to sneak as obvious as possible toward the safe house. The dodge roll was a bit much.

“Interesting bedfellows you got.” Nick whispered and watched Turner attempt to fix her indefinitely mussed hair.

Hancock snorted, “You got no idea.”

“He’s more like a stupid big brother.” Pushing away from the wall, Turner looked around the corner to spy on Deacon, but found that he had disappeared. 

Nick looked out as well, towering over Turner’s smaller frame, his chin nearly resting on top of her head. “He’s a little too good at that.” He mused at Deacon’s ability to seemingly vanish. But Turner lifted her head at how near his voice was and hit his chin, making his teeth click.

She slunk forward a step to put some space between them, “You should have seen him when we first met. I didn’t even know he was in the room. Metro and I were--” she stopped herself short and pulled away from the corner, walking around the synth toward Hancock. The ghoul was now picking his nails with a rather jagged knife, but didn’t move as Turner stood close to him.

“I told you I don’t bite.” The synth tried. Turner shook her head in what looked to be a pout, and squatted against the wall to play with some concrete shards. “Playing hard ball, huh?” Nick thought, and padded his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Only then did he remember he forgot to buy more while they were still in Goodneighbor, and his shoulders fell defeated. Deacon had managed to distract him just enough to forget.

A small rustle caught his attention and he gazed down to Turner, who now shook a sealed pack of cigarettes temptingly. He noted she didn’t quite meet his eye, and wondered if maybe it was a trick. Or a token of peace. 

“The way you chain smoke these things, I’m glad you’re not human. Thought maybe…” she waved the packet around again, an act that made Nick smile genuinely. 

“You shouldn’t have.” A coy laugh left his throat as he went to grab the pack, but she pulled it away.

“Only if you wash that coat.”

It was Hancock’s turn to chuckle, the knife sliding between his fingers like a beautiful dance. “There’s always a catch. Fine, kid, just for you.” The pack extended out to him again and he took it from her fingers gingerly. “I’ll have to remember to save some soap for that mouth of yours.”

As much as Turner hated to admit it, the detective was growing on her. The word quirks, the pet names, the digs at her -- it was all too familiar and comforting. But damn if she’ll ever tell the smarmy synth that.

\---

Nearly a half hour passed when Deacon trotted back up to them, his face far more grave than when he had left. Turner stood with a start and sauntered up to him. “So?”

“It’s as bad as I thought. They raided the pantry.” Deacon paused and held Turner off from heading into Ticonderoga herself. “Seriously, though. It’s bad. There’s something else in there you’re not gonna like.”

Deacon nodded to Nick and Hancock, and now firmly held their attention. “Like what?” Turner asked sheepishly, but didn’t receive an answer. 

They walked silently through the busted doors of Ticonderoga and into the foyer. A quiet followed, tense and uneasy, as Deacon beckoned them into the elevator. Ushering them inside, they stood and waited, the long chug to the top an agonizing wait. 

Turner’s foot tapped nervously on the floor and a shaky breath left her lungs, the closeness of the cramped elevator a slow death. Watching the dial circle up and over the hump to show they were nearing the top was both a boon and an omen. A hand slid down her arm and she jumped, only relaxing when she realized Hancock’s hand now held hers. It was enough to calm her for the moment. Not a word needed to be said.

Nick took note the way the ghoul and the kid stood close together, shoulders pressing and faces sheepish. Still afraid to admit. He figured them for close, the way they went on last night in the Third Rail -- how close he still wasn’t sure of. His eyes searched around the elevator, from the floor dial to Deacon, to the small scar on the back of Turner’s neck. But he always managed to find himself back at their hands. 

The silence was broken when the elevator dinged and opened weakly, and immediately the bitter stench of blood and unmistakable smell of rot filled the air. Turner’s grip tightened around the ghoul’s hand, and they followed Deacon into the tomb that was now Ticonderoga. 

No chatter filled the air, no warm smiles and raunchy jokes from High Rise, or the wicked laughs of Lily and Angela. Deacon stopped at the base of the staircase leading up, his face stoic and head tilted. Behind him on the wall of the stair’s landing was painted a large emblem of the Brotherhood of Steel, cogs, wings, and sword a shining gold against the rusted metal. 

Beneath it, however, was something else. Something that made Turner stagger back.

“SURRENDER RIDLEY TURNER”

“So much for whodunit.” Nick whispered and strode up the stairs. Turner’s heart beat in her chest a million miles a minute, her pulse a frantic drum beat that threatened to topple her. 

“Kinda makes you think if they meant ‘Surrender’ comma ‘Ridley Turner’ or ‘Surrender Ridley Turner’. You know, grammar and…” Deacon rubbed his neck anxiously at the attempt to lighten the mood, but Turner could not raise her eyes from the floor. “… all that.”

Hancock released her hand and let her walk up the steps to stand at Nick’s side, who now looked over the message, chin in hand. “So, the Brotherhood is still out to get you, then. Must have taken it hard, you coming back to visit. Is that who your friend meant when he said ‘boogieman’?”

Turner answered him with a nod, “This is my fault. They wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t try to get those agents back. It’s my--”

Coming one, two, three steps high, Hancock stopped her short, “They woulda done this anyway, sunshine. Doesn’t matter if you tried to take back what’s yours -- they ain’t about to play nice.”

Deacon nodded, “They must have gotten it from one of the hostages. Broke them down.”

“I can’t go back to Dez, not after this.” She met Deacon’s look with a frightened one, “she was already skeptical of me, what now? She’ll think I told the Brotherhood where to go.”

“And what, told the Brotherhood to stab you in the back afterwards?” Nick steadied her, his metal fingers tight in the fabric of her coat. “No, kid. They can’t blame you for this one.”

“I didn’t find High Rise.” Deacon added, “Other than him, everyone’s accounted for.” He sat himself down on the bottom-most stair and fiddled with a lighter, the flames gleaming off his sunglasses. “We should collect what we can and get out of here, back to HQ.”

Turner made her way down the steps slowly, Nick at her heels, and headed to the man-made incline leading down through the floor. Her eyes landed on the ghoul and she stopped, “Hancock, can you help Deacon up here? I don’t want to be around…” she glanced back at the message, “… that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I got you.” She passed by him and down through the opening, leaving the synth detective behind. But the ghoul had other plans, pulling Nick in with the shake of his wrist. He tilted his head to where Turner disappeared. “Mind keepin’ an eye on her?”

Without another word, Nick followed after her, his shoes slipping on the dust-lined linoleum of the “walkway” down. He found Turner searching through drawers and papers in a ransacked office, filling the bag on her side with anything and everything helpful. Drawn into herself, she didn’t look much for conversation.

“You alright, kid?” His voice broke the heavy silence of the room. 

Nick wasn’t surprised when he didn’t receive and answer, Turner’s eyes downcast and visage sullen. Small hands grasped, shaking, at a bottle of water before stuffing it away. And without a word she scooted past him, into the hall to rummage through the remains. His yellow eyes followed her, becoming her shadow as she ventured into the next room.

If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to force her. He’d seen it more times than he could count -- something that left a client speechless, some loss he couldn’t avoid in a case, some disappearance he couldn’t quite solve. But Turner wasn’t a client. He didn’t even know if they could be considered friends. 

He’d known her all of two, three days and from those alone he could only imagine what her life must be like. The Commonwealth was a rough place, and she was no exception to the rule. Maybe getting drunk and hugging everyone in the Third Rail (excluding him, but he wasn’t about to complain at that moment) was something she needed. 

“I know who did it.” Turner started cryptically. 

Nick looked up from a bundle of things he’d gathered in his arms, “The Brotherhood? Or more specifically?”

“Specifically.” She opened her bag so he could deposit his findings. “Maxson relies on his best Paladins and Knights to ‘do his bidding’. Anyone who can take an order and never question it.” Turner snapped her bag shut and leant against the desk, fidgeting with her coat sleeves. She looked small in her introspection, meek like she was under scrutiny.

“I take it you weren’t the type to follow orders so easily.” The synth all but expected the shake of her head.

“Riddik was always his favourite, even back in the Capital. Never questioned Maxson on anything -- Elder Lyons, yeah -- but never Maxson. He wanted something done, he’d call Riddik.”

“So you’re saying this Riddik is behind all this. Must be some kind of loyal going this far to get to you.” The synth stood beside her against the desk, “Got some old memories.” He tapped the side of his head for emphasis. “Mafia goons willing to do anything to get the boss to notice ‘em. Schmooze their way to the top. Yank the rug out from under the head honcho.”

Despite not knowing what Nick meant by “mafia”, Turner got the gist of what he said. “Yeah, well, Riddik’s just crazy. You’d think they’d be Elder the way they go on about the Brotherhood.” A weak laugh left her throat, “Shoulda seen their room in the Citadel. Every wall had a Brotherhood flag. Probably used one as a blanket, too.”

“Like I said. Schmooze.” The word was ridiculous, to say the least, but Turner pondered for a moment. Would Riddik really be doing all of this just for Maxson’s favour, or was there some ulterior motive to the “unquestionable loyalty”? 

Nick had managed to throw a wrench into the machine Turner hadn’t thought of throwing, but she couldn’t know for sure. 

“But we’ve got your back.” He raised a hand as an invitation to shake it.

Turner gave him a look, “We?” Hancock and Deacon she knew for sure, but this synth detective that managed to pop into her life only a few days ago (who was still a mystery in of himself to her) wanted to stick around and help? She couldn’t possibly say “no” to any help after today’s events, but she was still thrown for a loop by his willingness. Maybe he was trying to schmuse… schmuze… schmoo -- 

“Yeah, kid. We.”

Taking his hand she shook it every which way, mostly left and right and not quite up and down. Finally, her face lightened. “Deacon’s gonna make fun of me, bringing home another synth.”

“Oh, he’s already told me all about that.” Nick winked at her as he eyes went wide, “Well, maybe not everything. Still waiting for my hug, but I think there’s a line. Might have to go stand at the end of the Glowing Sea if I ever hope to get one.”

“KL-E-O’s way ahead of you. And Glory. And Whitechapel Charlie. And--”

“Just give me an I.O.U. and I’ll be patient.” Her hand slipped out of his, quick like lightning, and she jumped away from the desk. “So, you and Hancock a little more than just friends, then?” Nick followed her out of the room, scooping up a screwdriver off a shelf to shove into his pocket. 

“Kind of off and on, yeah.” It still annoyed her, the sheer… what was the word? Gall? No, Hancock had balls to lay the puppy dog eyes on her and then pop up like he did. Not that she hadn’t done the same herself before, but it was different when someone was pulling the wool over her eyes and not the other way around. “After this last ‘off’, we might not be ‘on’ for a while.”

“He’s sweet on you. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. Made sure to write it down in my little black book: ‘A sucker for hand holding’.” He wriggled his digits around as an example, and watched Turner’s cheeks turn a bright scarlet. “And a bit of a firebrand who can’t take a little teasing.”

“I take teasing just fine. I tease better than…” she searched for an example, but couldn’t find one. Instead, her red cheeks puffed and her hackles raised, “You smell funny.”

Childish and immature to say the least, but Nick only smiled, “You wound me. Made the old motor kick for a second.”

“Old is right. Don’t backfire around me.” Turner walked down the hall quickly and took the steps down to the floor below.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll just wait ‘til you’re asleep -- then watch out.” Nick could hear her groan as he rounded the banister to take the stairs himself, but stopped when a loud, resounding boom shook the floor beneath his feet. 

“Kid?!” he yelled, and hurried down the stairs.

The air was thick with smoke and dust, and he struggled to see through it. “You alright, sweetheart? Turner?” A cough caught his attention amongst the smoke, and he moved through the thick smog toward it. On the floor sat Turner, face dark with soot and lungs thick with smoke. In front of her in one of the doorways laid the remains of a makeshift bomb. If she’d been any closer, the synth would have to explain to Hancock and Deacon why their friend was missing a part or two.

A few scrapes on her legs and a gash on her forehead were the least of her worries. Turner was lucky the shrapnel -- Nick shook his head and waved away the smoke, looping his arms under hers to pulled her to her feet, “Friends of yours don’t play around, do they?” When out of the smoke, he took a second to look over her. “That or you crossed a black cat or twelve.” 

The gash on her brow bled down the line of her cheek, “I’m never gonna get rid of my headache, am I?”

“Not at this rate. You should play the lottery, though.” Nick pulled the sleeve of his coat and dabbed at her brow, earning him a hiss and a whine, “I’m pretty sure you’d have a winning ticket.”

Two pairs of feet could be heard galloping in the upper corridor, “Hey, you guys alright?” Hancock called from above, “What the hell was that?” The ghoul and Deacon came into view and immediately waved the dissipating smoke from their faces. 

“Brotherhood left us a ‘welcome home’ gift. Kid walked right into it.” Turner replaced Nick’s sleeve with her own and wiped the blood off her cheek. It only worked in smearing it, fading into what was left of her sunburn.

Deacon watched them from over the banister, chin on his arms, “Got yourself a new battle scar, huh? Now you’ll be irresistible to those wasteland types.”

“Yeah, sure.” Turner groaned and continued her way down the hall undeterred, though the smoke made her cough quite a bit. “All I need now is a pair of sunglasses and a bad wig.” She slipped once on a metal shard and caught herself just as quick, the embarrassed blush impossible to read on her already reddened cheeks. The trio watched her and followed behind after a pause -- letting her have a moment to puff her plumage again. 

“Like a bull in a china shop.” Nick quipped, cigarette on his lips.

Deacon and Hancock spoke in unison, “You got no idea.”

\---

Riddik paced, agitated and tense. “They triggered one of the traps.” Eleven piped up, overlooking Ticonderoga from atop a crumbling building. A large box with three lights, two green and one red, sat in his hands, a few flip switches just beneath them. “Should we go in? We can take them by surprise.”

Riddik turned heel and stomped toward Eleven. The Knight glanced up from the box to the approaching Paladin and scampered back against the mostly collapsed wall. Golden lenses ablaze with hellfire, Riddik stared them down.

Four and Nine withheld any further input.

This wasn’t just about catching Ridley Turner. No, this was about sending a message to not only a traitor of the Brotherhood, but to the whole of the Railroad. Riddik would make an example of Turner and anyone who stood in their path, in the path of the Brotherhood of Steel. 

Looking out over the remains of a quiet Ticonderoga, Riddik’s hands gripped tight against the crumbling wall. How joyous would Elder Maxson be if they brought not only the traitor, but the message the Railroad had fallen -- and all by their hand alone. 

No, Riddik would take their time, and watch from afar. What better way to start a domino effect than with the first piece. And dear Ridley Turner was just the right one.

\---

Up Next:

Chapter 7: Railroad Derailment

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Riddik sleeps with their armour on. And bathes with their armour on. And just smashes their breakfast against their big, dumb, idiot helmet.


	7. Railroad Derailment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by your support! You guys keep me going! Seriously! If you have any ideas or suggestions you'd like to throw my way, my Tumblr is Esuerc.Tumblr.Com
> 
> Once again, I'm the only one proof-reading this, so if I missed some grammar or spelling mistakes, please tell me!
> 
> Also, I have song for Riddik if you wanna give it a listen uwu
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY1W5-s0Hsw

\---

The night had grown cold as the group made their way from Ticonderoga. Turner wondered, perhaps, if stopping had been a good idea as she laid out her rather uncomfortable sleeping bag on the remains of a couch. The four of them in the open was fine enough; the four of them gathered into one room with a loud sleeper -- Deacon -- was a drawback. Mentally and emotionally exhausted, she settled down on her thin bedroll and zipped it up and around her, the warm material gathered around her neck to keep out the chill. 

Hancock was somewhere nearby by the sound of it, but Turner couldn’t pry her gaze from the back of the couch, the argyle print the most fascinating thing in the room. Ticonderoga wasn’t her fault, and she knew. Deacon insisted up until they made camp in the derelict apartment, but deep down there was a heaviness in her chest. 

It sat in her lungs like a stone, an anxious tension that shortened her breath and made her thoughts race. But her mind stilled as Hancock settled on the couch at her back, taking his hat off to place on his knee. 

“I know the feelin’, sunshine.” He whispered so Nick and Deacon, who were gazing out the surprisingly unbroken windows, couldn’t hear. 

“Like with what happened in Diamond City?” her voice came as nothing more than a mumble, but the ghoul understood. 

“Yeah. Like that.” There was a beat of silence. Turner rolled over under her covers to face him, her nose buried. “Nothin’s gonna make you feel better but time, I guess. S’how it usually works.” His fingers idly drummed against his thigh, the toes of his boots clicking together. 

The leather of his shoes was cracked and pulling. He would have to replace them soon, which was a pity. He had come to like them. But the pain in his knees was killing him. “Get some sleep.” 

Hancock placed a hand on her shoulder, warm even through the bedroll, and bent low to kiss her temple. He remained for what felt like a moment as Turner shut her eyes, but when she opened them again he was already asleep in a nearby chair. Deacon lay asleep near the door, which they had barricaded with a dresser, pistol in hand. Nick, however, was still awake, still looking out the window, still… still. 

Turner wasn’t certain, but she believed Gen 1s and 2s didn’t need sleep like the Gen 3s (not that even they needed it, but they thought themselves human, so no need to deviate). What did they do with all that time? Had the detective ever experienced what it felt like to go to bed with a heavy heart only to wake up feeling better?

“No sleep mode?” she asked. 

Nick was broken from his thoughts with a jump, his yellow eyes bright in the darkness. “Sorry to say, but the Sandman and I aren’t on good terms.” As much as he wanted a cigarette to occupy his hands, he wouldn’t risk waking them with the smell. “Besides, someone has to keep watch.”

There was a lull between them where they said nothing, eyes meeting but never wavering. “Night’s always darkest before the dawn, kid. Get some sleep.”

\---

Turner woke again, she remembered, but this time to the sound of Deacon falling over in his sleep. It was a nightmare, she knew, but he’d never tell her of what. She supposed that was his business.

Now that everyone was officially awake and not even remotely close to being refreshed, they gathered their things and continued on to North End Church. The buildings of Boston were dyed a faint pink in the morning light, dew scattered over the rubble of the Commonwealth and a thin veil of fog above the ground. 

Ragtag and obvious, the group made their way through the narrow alleys of the northern ruins, the stench of the water from the nearby river pungent. “That’s quite the smell, isn’t it?” Nick mused aloud from Turner’s side. Hancock trotted slowly behind them, his head bowed to hide his eyes from the bright morning sun. 

“It’s not nice to talk about Deacon like that.” Turner was quick to add. 

Deacon spied over his shoulder, and stopped so she nearly ran into him, his tongue just barely sticking out from between his lips. “Oh, yeah? Come get a whiff.” He pursued the girl around the synth detective, running circles around him until Nick thought he might get dizzy. 

When he finally caught her, she was pulled into a headlock, and as nonchalant as possible, the agent looked up to Nick. What could the detective do but laugh? Turner was getting exactly what she deserved, though Deacon digging his knuckles into her hair was a bit overkill. 

\---

An echo filled the room as Nick kicked a glass bottle across the floor of the supposedly abandoned North End Church, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I expected a bit more from a hideout.” He admitted. “Maybe a trapdoor, a secret message to decode. ‘What’s the password?’ kind of nonsense.” Crime-novel stuff, sure, but even a little noire would have been nice. 

The church must have been a thing of beauty back in the days before the bombs, the grandness and scope of the room, its vaulted ceiling and destroyed pipe organ. Even amongst the rubble, there was a sense of serenity. He couldn’t imagine the Railroad hideout being secreted away in a place like this, though he supposed that was the point. 

Hiding in plain sight… almost. 

The synth was broken from his reverie by Turner as she threw a small rock at his arm. Deacon and Hancock were nowhere to be found. Maybe there was a trap door.

“C’mon, old man. Don’t want your joints freezing up.” She chided playfully and scurried through an open doorway beneath a collapsed balcony. 

The smell of rot and fetid water hit Nick like a wall as he entered in after her. No wonder Turner made the joke about Deacon smelling. He might just have to trash his coat after everything was said and done. That, or burn it. 

The undercroft held a chill like death, which wasn’t shocking as Turner hopped over the remains of an upturned coffin, the skeleton left behind comically propped in the open, sunglasses on and jaw hinged open in a macabre laugh. The synth detective knew then, without a doubt, the Railroad was out there. Not kooky, but nuts wasn’t a strong enough word. 

Nick sidestepped the coffin and followed through the numerous confusing twists and turns leading to a dead end where they found the other two of their group waiting patiently. He bumped into Turner as she came to a sudden halt, his hat nearly flying from his head. “Dead end? Can’t say I’m not used to those.”

Hancock gave him a wry grin and raised a small red inhaler to his lips. “Wanna do the honors, sunshine?”

“Don’t break it this time. I believe in you.” Deacon quipped, and gave her a sarcastic thumb up before twisting it down with a raspberry. 

A golden, embossed disk lay in the stone of the wall to Turner’s right, and with a surprisingly swift hand she spun the centermost dial this way and that. If she was trying to keep the eagle-eyed synth from seeing the password, she was doing a terrible job. His eyes could read faster, process more quickly, and remember more than any human, and it didn’t take a synth to know the password into the Railroad HQ was one of the weakest he’d seen. “QWERTY” would have been a stronger password.

“How’ve they managed to survive this long, I’ll never know.” Nick joked inwardly and watched with a smile as Turner’s face flushed at his unbreakable stare. Maybe if he gave her a few hundred years, she might even be able to get into Eddie Winter’s bunker. 

Eddie Winter. 

Nick’s smile faltered instantly. He hadn’t forgotten, no. He’d never forget. But he realized Turner had distracted him from the constant burden of remembering. He would kill for the ability to shut off like a human would at night, just for a bit of time away from his thoughts. “Maybe after this, asking the kid for a favour won’t be too farfetched.” He convinced himself. 

A rumbling and working of gears resounded behind the brick wall, and with a shake it shifted and slid aside. Revealed was an infinite darkness, one that remained as Deacon was the first to push on, and one by one they followed. 

“Looks like we don’t need a flashlight.” Turner joked from the shadows. The synth’s luminescent eyes were startling in the dark, but inviting. She just supposed she was used to it by now. 

“I’ll just have to walk with my eyes closed. Or maybe cover them up.” Nick raised his right hand to cover his eyes, but the yellow still stared out from the spaces between his fingers. “If I trip on something, you’ll just have to go on without me.”

They met an aged door, swollen with moisture and molded along the edges. Deacon held a finger to his lips and opened the door as quietly as he could, the wood creaking. 

The lower level of the undercroft was bathed in warm lantern light, the stone coffins left behind from centuries ago serving as tables, containers, and maybe even a bed or two. The ceiling was riddled with a maze of wires and electronics, and on each support pillar sat a disarmed bomb package, a small red light on them any sign they were more than idle threat. 

With the amount of tech running through the place Nick wondered again how the Railroad went so long without going noticed. Place must have shown like a beacon if anyone had the know-how and technology to search it out. 

Deacon put a hand out to stop the three, Turner, Nick, and Hancock bunching up on the steps. “Let me give Dez the lowdown first. That way her head might not pop.” He vanished just around a bend, into a room carved into the brick and rock. 

Hancock breathed deep and stepped down into the main room, forgoing whatever the Railroad agent wanted of them. “Nice digs. No wonder you don’t hang around Goodneighbor for long.”

“It’s not exactly ‘home, sweet, home’. I’m more worried about a cave-in.” Turner was next to follow in, hiding around the ghoul to spy around the room. The ghoul didn’t mind the attention. “Glory insists we keep the place rigged ‘just in case’. At least Goodneighbor’s above ground.”

No one seemed any the wiser. Tinker Tom was at his station, one of his darling MILA in hand, Drummer Boy worked on the large map in the centre of the room, Glory accompanying him, and several other agents gathered around a chalkboard reviewing the Railroad safety symbols. 

“The ‘secret passage’ comment was a joke.” Nick followed in line, leaning against one of the many brick and mortar pillars. But he didn’t stay there for long. 

Turner tugged him by the sleeve to stand him in front of her, followed by the ghoul. 

Desdemona’s voice drifted through the antechamber. She was furious -- it could have been for a number of reasons, but Turner knew for sure it had something to do with her, if even just a little. 

With the ghoul and synth in front of her, Turner hid as Desdemona and Deacon came back into the room. The woman’s steps were heavy and determined. “Deacon, I told you to stop letting strangers into the HQ. Now, where is she?”

Both Nick and Hancock looked behind them to the cowering Turner. So much for the girl’s blustering. 

“I’m sorry to say, Dez, but the Institute got hold of her. Put her in some busted up Gen2 just to spite us.” Deacon threw an arm over his eyes. Nick played along with the charade, blowing a short raspberry with his tongue. “See? It’s awful!”

Desdemona seemed unimpressed and unconvinced. “Come out.” She demanded.

With a groan, Turner made a small space between the two men and poked her head out. “Did I also mention she has two heads? They thought about putting her in one of the watcher birds, but--”

“Enough, both of you. Turner, come out here. Now.” Nick and Hancock parted and allowed Turner through. She ambled out looking three times smaller. “I’m not blaming you for Ticonderoga, but I am very skeptical.”

“She hasn’t been communicating with the Brotherhood, Dez.” Deacon defended. “There was the Prydwen, but that month she was gone, she didn’t get anywhere near them.”

“I heard about Ticon through Deacon.” Turner began. “I managed to get to Goodneighbor with the help of Detective Valentine here.” she looked back to the detective, meeting his eye quickly before turning away, “I was gonna come back to HQ immediately, but he suggested against it in case the Brotherhood had someone on my tail. The hostages on the Prydwen were dead by the time I got there. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

“I don’t doubt that. It was a fool’s errand, but I’m glad you made the effort.” The words were forced, and it didn’t take a detective to figure that one out. Desdemona turned to Deacon, “And what about Ticon? Was there anyone left other than the one that made it back to us?”

“I couldn’t find High Rise, but everyone else was accounted for. Brotherhood left their stink on the place, all right.” Deacon nodded his head to Hancock and Nick, “And those two can vouch for her, the Brotherhood left a nice little message behind.” Turner straightened at this, strengthened by the agent’s words and the comfort of knowing the two at her back would defend her. 

Desdemona didn’t seem convinced, but with four sets of eyes trained on her, not including the gathering audience of Railroad agents, she backed down. “We will speak about this later. Privately.” She turned on heel and headed toward the map table, Deacon in tow. “For now, we have to find a new safe haven to process the runaways, and formulate a plan to strike back at the Brotherhood.”

The audience dissipated as Turner followed, Nick and Hancock at her heels. But the ghoul leant in close to his robotic counterpart and whispered with a raised hand, “Real hard ass, huh?” He alluded to Desdemona, the synth knew, but he could only shake his head. 

Now in front of the table, Desdemona looked the group over: A ghoul in colonial clothing, a synth that fancied himself a detective, an ex-Brotherhood member, and a liar extraordinaire. If she could tear her hair out without being questioned, she would have. Tinker Tom, eyes wide and face inquisitive, padded up to the table to join them, plopping down a large machine, MILA, to sit at the edge. 

“With Ticonderoga lost, we’re running out of time and places to hide.” Desdemona crossed out Ticon from the map and laid her hands flat against the table. “And with both the Institute and the Brotherhood threatening us, we have to take the fight to them if we hope to survive.”

“We could get another Vertibird, like I did to get on the Prydwen the first time.” Turner added, hoping to be of some aid to the conversation. “Sabotage it or rig it, or something. It worked before, and I know better than anyone here the Brotherhood’s loopholes.”

Nick’s gaze roamed over the map. The Railroad was in a tight spot, and they knew it. If they were willing to trust Turner again in getting back at the Brotherhood of Steel, he had no doubt they might just prevail. But it would take a lot of--

A rumble coursed through the ceiling above them, loud and rapturous, dust falling through the cracks to coat the members at the table in a light dusting. The lights flickered dangerously, and the air grew eerily quiet. Turner covered her head with her hands as the earth above them shook again, “Maybe raiders? It could be another car going off.”

Deacon’s face turned skyward, frown skewing at another rumble that followed. The movements were too consistent, too timed. Something wasn’t right. “Don’t think so.” He pulled from the table and made his way quickly back over to the stairs. His voice echoed back down to them as he disappeared, “I’ll check it out.”

Nick’s metal fingers tapped at the table nervously, and he and Hancock shared a look. Something was going on topside, and he felt deep down in what he imagined would have been his gut that it spelt nothing but trouble. 

Desdemona took this time to read over the map once more and began to circle several locations of interest; anywhere she thought had the potential for a new safe house. The ghoul could all but mutter under his breath and bent around Turner to smear one of the circles, “Unless you’re lookin’ for super mutants to join up, I suggest stayin’ out of there.”

Another rumble shook the HQ, and Turner took a step back from the table, only to run into Nick’s chest. A hand on her back steadied her, helped her relax if only a bit. One day was all she wanted. One day where something bad didn’t happen. Such a thing was nigh impossible in the Commonwealth, and with a glance back at the detective she took her place at the table again. 

Several minutes passed when frantic steps raced down into the antechamber, Deacon sprinting toward the group. 

“What’s up there?” Turner questioned, but he stopped her short.

“They’re not up anymore. They’re in and they’re coming.” The group scattered away from the map, and taking a deep breath, Turner held herself as still as she could muster. “Tom, get what you can! MILA, holotapes, maps, anything. Glory, PAM, you make sure whoever’s up there can’t get--”

“Deacon, who’s up there?” Turner asked again, and began to arm the packages around the support pillars.

“Brotherhood. Four of them.” He elaborated, “I’m not joking around this time. Seriously, we have to go.” Deacon faced Glory again and ordered her to make sure everyone made it through the tunnels and out. They couldn’t risk losing any more agents to the Brotherhood, not so soon after Ticonderoga. 

Turner faced Hancock and Nick who stood waiting and ready, “You guys, uh…” her eyes traveled from one to the other, unsure of what to do, “Hancock, help whoever you can get out. There’s a supply room toward the end of the line, when you pass it make sure we take everything we can carry.” She pointed to a fault in the wall, the glow of a blue lamp within. 

The escape tunnel.

“Got it.” Hancock affirmed, but stayed for one more moment before running off, “You make sure you get out, sunshine.”

Amidst the chaos of the Railroad evacuating, Nick realized something in Turner must have clicked. Something broke her from the self loathing the attack on Ticonderoga and the failure on the Prydwen brought. He could see it in her eyes, the way she now carried herself, standing tall… well “tall” might have been the wrong word. “Kid, what about you? You can’t stay down here.”

“I’m not. I’m gonna,” she handed off a bag of medical supplies to Doctor Carrington, “I’m gonna follow, but I need to see. I have to know for sure it’s Riddik.”

If she was trying to make it up to the Railroad, it was a weird way to show it. Nick knew the feeling when your conscience yelled at you for all the bad things that happened, when your mind was desperate to believe it wasn’t your fault. He wasn’t satisfied, but he nodded. “Just make sure you get out.” He pointed one metal finger at her for emphasis, and extended his hand. It was becoming a staple between them, he realized. “Deal?”

The room was nearly clear, and the two of them stood for a short time. To know for certain, Turner had to stick around to see for herself. Deacon knew his stuff, surely, but only she could know definitively. The clockwork detective’s hand remained waiting, and her vision narrowed on it. 

Pushing his hand aside, she embraced him.

Nick went stiff as a board, but as soon as the hug started it ended just as abruptly. “Did I get a cut in that line of yours?”

“Shut up and go.” Turner circled around the synth and pushed him toward the escape tunnel. “You’re not getting another one.”

Nick gave her a knowing wink before going on after the others.

The undercroft was dead quiet save for the light beeping of the rigged explosives all about the room. Glory had been thorough, and even that was an understatement.

The banging was suddenly closer, a heavy echo that traveled down the secret passage to bounce on the walls of the undercroft. Pulling her pistol from her coat, Turner readied it and stood dumbly in the centre of the room. She realized then, after a tick, it was foolish to stand there wide in the open -- like some kind of comic book hero or the Silver Shroud -- and looked back to the doorway leading into the escape tunnel. It wouldn’t hurt to be somewhat cautious. 

She putted to the doorway and slid in, a yelp escaping her throat as wide, yellow eyes stared her down. “What are you doing?” the question flew out at lightning speed to the synth detective who stood coyly in the hall, “I told you to go.”

“Didn’t think I’d actually leave you behind to fend for yourself, did you? What kind of man would I be?” Nick placed his right hand on his chest, “Besides, I want to see this boogieman for myself.” He yanked her out of view of the antechamber and chanced a look inside.

The rumbles that were once topside now sat at the secret door into the HQ. It was only a matter of time. The banging got louder, once, twice, three times, and was silenced by a collapse. Whoever it was had just broken through the door, and was just seconds away from revealing themselves.

Slithering her way up and under Nick to push him aside didn’t work, and Turner found herself awkwardly pressed between the doorway and the synth. But it didn’t matter -- what mattered was seeing for herself that it was Maxson’s lapdog that pursued them.

With a squeal, the wooden door leading into the antechamber opened. Heavy like a behemoth, something strode down the steps, gunmetal grey and wicked. Out from the shadows, golden lenses gazed, regal blue cape dragging down the steps behind them as they entered the room. 

X-01 armour shining brilliantly, Riddik stepped from the darkness, three others appearing behind them, weapons poised. 

Turner sucked in a breath and readied her pistol, holding it steady. She could hear Nick roll the cylinder of his own, checking his shots, before snapping it back shut with a click.

Ice ran through her veins at the sight. How long had it been since they were face to face? “Not long enough.” She thought. 

Riddik strode in just far enough so the light of an overhead lamp illuminated them. They were like a colossus, more gigantesque now that Turner had no armour with which to protect herself. Cape in hand, they gathered it over their arm and whisked the other out. The three knights at Riddik’s stead spread throughout the room at the wordless order, searching for anything and everything that could aid them in their quest. 

Nick kept his pistol at the ready, a bullet in the chamber and finger on the trigger. “The Boogieman, I take it?” he whispered in Turner’s ear, and received a nod in return. “Charming.” Watching the three Brotherhood knights scour through the antechamber, he noted Riddik did not move, did not budge. That was some kind of authority, to be able to stand and do nothing and order those around you without a word of question. 

Riddik ran a hand across the map table and snatched the worn paper up. Luckily, Desdemona hadn’t quite gotten down to making definite decisions on which location to choose. Turner wasn’t sure how to feel about the situation. She was right. Maxson had sent the most zealous, albeit psychotic, Paladin after her.

But was it to kill her?

Or capture her?

Regardless, Riddik would be less than accommodating. 

“Nick, wait until one of the knights gets close to a bomb, and then shoot it.” She said nearly silently, and tugged on the end of his tie to pull him into view of the room. 

“I think you overestimate my aim, kid. But I’ll give it…” He paused.

“Don’t you dare.”

“A shot.” 

Turner wanted to strangle the synth with his own tie if she knew it might actually do something. But when was he not playing with words? It didn’t matter the situation at hand, but given the current predicament she supposed it was to lighten the mood. 

“Paladin, the room is clear!” Four announced to Riddik, who threw the map back down onto the table. “Fucking rats escaped!” Riddik slowly looked about the room, stopping when they landed on the spot in which Nick and Turner hid. 

Nine and Eleven acknowledged, but Four was the first to head toward the doorway, steps booming. 

“Nick, now!” They both leant out and fired, but Nick pulled Turner back in as Four’s laser pistol shot into the hall. 

“Paladin, they’re here!” Four shouted, but was cut short as Nick’s next shot met its mark. 

An explosion rocked the room near the rushing knight, and the ceiling began to cave. Nine, Eleven, and Riddik scattered to escape the crumbling of the foundation above them, and it took two more shots for Turner to hit another package. Through the dust, the duo couldn’t see a thing, but that didn’t stop Nick and Turner from taking the chance to run down into the escape tunnel. 

“I don’t think that’s gonna stop them, kid.” Nick toppled a desk leant against the wall to lie in front of the door.

“No, but it’ll give us some more time to make sure everyone gets out.”

\---

Four hobbled out from the dust of the cave in, left leg plates missing and pauldron skewed. He knew Riddik and the others were still in the antechamber, potentially trapped, but he made his way, slowly gaining speed, toward where the girl and synth escaped. 

The door before him wouldn’t budge, and with one kick from his good leg, Four slammed it open. The desk laid out to hinder him flew and clanked against the wall as he raced past it. 

Nothing would stop him from making Riddik proud.

Nothing.

\---

Fetid water soaked the lower half of Nick’s legs while he managed his way through the flooded room. Meanwhile, Turner balanced precariously on a slick pipe that ran the whole of the room, steps ahead of him. If it didn’t clash with the detective look, he might have to invest in some sneakers, or at least something with a little more traction than dress shoes. 

“Friends of yours mean business.” He leapt over a submerged pipe as Turner pushed on, feet on mostly dry land. 

“There’s a door up ahead. It’s got magnetic locks on it, and the terminal next to it can keep them from going any further.” She helped him out of the water, “We lock it, Riddik’s gonna have to throw a mini nuke to get it open.”

Nick clambered up the steps before her, coat tails dripping wet. “I certainly hope so. I’m not looking forward to seeing your Boogieman up close and personal.”

\---

He could see them now. 

Not far behind, Four sprinted through the water, the pain in his left leg forgotten. He could hear their voices, so close, bouncing off the walls. 

“Catch the girl. Kill the synth. Catch the girl. Kill the synth.” The mantra gave him strength. Riddik would be so proud.

The first set of steps proved to be no challenge, and the escaping duo was within his sights. 

With a leap of faith, Four pounced from the lowest step, hand outstretched. 

\---

The thundering of footsteps caught him off-guard, and Nick was a second too late. “Kid, behind you!”

Four crashed down on the stone steps, Turner’s ankle in hand. She toppled, falling painfully onto the stairs. Nick took a shot at the knight, but it ricocheted and stuck itself in the wall. He hesitated firing another now that she flailed wildly, kicking with what might she had straight at the knight’s helmet. 

Four was quick to reciprocate, and with his free hand drew his laser pistol and fired blindly up the stairs. A beam hit its mark in Nick’s arm, and he hobbled back. 

“Fucking traitor!” Four pulled Turner closer, yanking her down several steps.

She took aim with her pistol. There was no way it could penetrate his armour.

Another tug and she was pulled close enough that she held her pistol flush with Four’s eye lens, his laser pistol raised to whip her. 

Her ears rang with the shot, Four’s visor shattering as the bullet passed through at point blank range. 

Four went slack instantly, slumping hard on Turner’s legs before clattering down the steps limply. Nick raced down the stairs and helped her to her feet with one arm; his other hanging loosely from what she could only assume was leaking coolant. 

“You okay?” she beat him to it as they continued running, the synth holding his arm to keep it still. 

“Nothing I can’t handle, sweetheart.” He gave her a wink through the pain. Every protocol in his processor was screaming, but he pushed them back. “Might have to give the old mechanic a visit if we get out of this.” 

\---

Riddik, Nine, and Eleven raced through the waterway and into the tunnel, but came to a halt at the sight of Four crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. The Paladin took but one second to acknowledge the body before dashing up the steps.

Turner and that synth were now in their sights. So close and yet so far. If they thought a simple magnetic door would stop them from claiming righteous--

Power sledge raised and readied, Riddik slammed it against the metal door. A tremor shook the room as Turner and Nick stood protected, their guns drawn and aimed through the wire grating.  
What a disgusting sight.

Riddik drew near to the unbreakable door, four inch thick, blast-proof metal with a small view window with which to spy the traitor and her abomination. The synth must have locked the door from a terminal on their side. The whole of the tunnel would crash down around them if the Paladin dared try to push further.

Riddik stared at the two of them, pacing back and forth in front of the door like a predator. Turner was within arm’s reach, but they could do nothing.

She bravely stepped forward behind the safety of the door and looked Riddik dead in the eye, green against gold. “Still a kiss-ass, Riddik?” she barked, “That collar Maxson’s got on you is getting’ awful tight, huh?”

Turner stumbled back against the synth detective as Riddik slammed their sledge once more against the door. Nine and Eleven appeared behind them, but stayed far away from the enraged Paladin. They wouldn’t dare impose.

The little traitor could act as brave as she pleased now that they stood behind an impregnable barrier.

“Go on home to your master.” Nick added and placed his pistol back in his coat. His arm was soaked with coolant, his soiled coat dyed a deep blue down the entirety of his sleeve. 

Riddik drew as near as they could, bowing deep. Their golden lenses sat on Turner and Nick both before they slowly turned away. 

The traitor had won this round, and they had a fallen Brother to which they must tend. 

Once the Paladin disappeared from sight, Nine and Eleven in tow, Turner fell back against the wall. She shook like a leaf, her gathered terror and anxiety boiling over. There wasn’t much Nick could do but give her a reassuring hand, and extended his working one out to her. 

“C’mon, kid. Friends are waiting.”

Turner’s gaze roamed from his hand to his eyes, tears brimming just on the edge of her vision. They were gold, she realized then, but so much unlike Riddik’s. And with that thought the terror and fear that sat in her throat began to diminish. 

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she took his hand in hers and breathed deep.

\---

Up Next:

Chapter 8: Institute Spy

What happens when the Valentine Detective Agency becomes the temporary home for the runaway Railroad? Tune in next time!  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick just wriggles his busted arm around, and when Turner asks is he's alright, he goes, "Yeah, kid. I'm 'all right'." before she slaps him.


	8. Institute Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love your support for my story! I never thought there would be so much love for an original character, and I'm so happy with all your feedback and fanart! 
> 
> Remember, I'm the only one proofreading this at the moment, so if you spot any grammar or spelling mistake, please tell me!
> 
> Also, I'm going to be posting a joke chapter for April Fool's Day for Automatron, and then a real chapter the next day!

[Mathi-Mathi-Arts](http://mathi-mathi-arts.tumblr.com/post/141401538308/esuerc-is-amazing-and-a-huge-inspiration-to-me-of) is fantastic! They've drawn a few Turners for me, and I wanted to show one off!

 

\---

Turner made her way up the muddy incline into daylight, the wind off the harbor howling through the broken windows of the collapsed house that served as a front. Nick followed slowly behind, clambering his way up after her against the difficult incline.

His leaking coolant made it hard to think straight, to move his actuators properly, and more than once he stumbled. If she hadn’t caught his hand, he might have slipped back down and stayed there. It was setting off every alarm, and it took all his will and effort to keep him going.

The chains that once barricaded the door were tossed aside in the Railroad’s escape, and outside the remnants gathered. Faint whispers traveled throughout the crowd, but the argument between Deacon and Desdemona could be heard over the wind and possibly down the street. So much for discrepancy.

“Don’t let it get to ya, kid.” Nick’s voice was hoarse, pained as they exited the house onto the raised floor that kept out the rabble.

From the rim of the group, Hancock spotted them and all but trotted up. Arms outstretched, he helped Turner down from the perch, “Had me worried there for a second, sunshine.” He admitted once her feet were on the ground, “Heard the bombs go off, thought maybe you’d…” his eyes drifted to the ground as the thought went unspoken.

“Nah,” she quickly assured him, “But I’m gonna have some nasty bruises later. Asshole caught me on the stairs.”Turner rubbed a hand down her right side where her ribs felt tender. Already, she could tell ugly bruises were forming. “Nick got the worst of it.”

From atop the perch, Nick sat, arm in hand trying to stem the continuous leak. “I’ve had a hell of a lot worse, kid. Needed a fluid change anyway.” The synth looked terrible, if Turner could be honest -- eyes half open, shoulders slumped, and she swore the gold of his optics had dimmed a fraction.

She had to get him patched up and fast.

Spying through the throng of people, a bizarre headpiece could be seen moving about, and she knew well it could mean only one person. “Tom, c’mere a minute.” Turner called into the group.

Tinker Tom poked his head out from the crowd and approached, running his hands down his bare arms from the wind chill. It was unfortunate they had to leave the way they did, but there was no way to know an attack would happen. Luckily, no one looked to be too worse for wear. Shaken, maybe, but unhurt. And cold.

“You mind taking a look at Nick?” Turner pointed back over to the synth, “One of them got a good shot at his arm.”

The detective ambled his way off and to the ground, immediately taking a seat again. Though it was much less “taking a seat” as it was “tumbling to the ground and pretending like you’d meant to do that”.

Tinker Tom nodded and dug into a pouch on his belt, producing a multi tool, “Yeah, no problem. I’ll have him good as new in no time.” Nick shook his head at the comment. “Well, maybe not new. How ‘bout ‘gently used’?” The tinkerer bent down and began to go to work on the clockwork detective, though he appeared less than pleased about removing his coat.

“So, they dead or what?” Hancock questioned as he blocked the wind from hitting Turner. He held firmly to his hat and squinted his eyes in the bright midday sun.

Turner thought back to the stairwell as she rubbed at her arms. One of Riddik’s boys had managed to get his hands on her, and if the Paladin ordered it or not, she was afraid he would kill her right then and there. “One of them is, I think. Got him through his visor as we were getting friendly on the steps.” Unless the Brotherhood had some new technology she didn’t know about, she highly doubted someone could bounce back from a bullet in the eye. “They’ll be distracted for a while, at least. Brotherhood doesn’t like leaving dead out on the field, if they can help it.”

The ghoul visibly relaxed and closed the gap between them, holding Turner tight against the warmth of his chest. No words needed to be said.

“You!” Desdemona’s voice rang out. Obviously, she had grown tired with whatever excuse Deacon was telling her. Hancock’s hold grew tighter, vice-like, as the enraged woman approached. “This is your fault! The Brotherhood knew we were here. They would have never--”

Just as Hancock went to turn on her with a rebuttal, Deacon stepped in and blocked Desdemona’s path. If Nick hadn’t been otherwise occupied, he would have stepped in himself, but Tinker Tom made sure he stayed put.

And though Deacon’s face was largely unreadable, it only added to the tension in his stance. “That’s not fair, Dez, and you know it.” The Railroad leader stopped and suddenly all eyes were upon them. “Like it or not, Turner didn’t come here alone. I was with her. So if you’re gonna blame her for leading the Brotherhood here, you’re gonna have to blame me, too.”

“Don’t defend her, Deacon.” Desdemona insisted, and attempted to sidestep him. “You know as well as I do this isn’t the first time.”

Hancock pulled away from Turner and blocked the Agent’s path just as easily. “Don’t think so, sister. I ain’t got time for your personal vendetta bullshit. You blame them, you blame me.” The two of them formed a defensive line, and Turner felt all the more small because of it. “Got it?”

They were defending her.

Turner was touched, and in the back of her mind she smiled. They weren’t about to let Desdemona have her way, not now, not ever. It’s not that she didn’t get what the Railroad leader was going through. Their home had been infiltrated, destroyed, all in the search for one turncoat traitor. But the Brotherhood would have attacked the Railroad eventually -- it was only a matter of time -- and Turner only served as a catalyst to speed up the process.

There came a shuffle from her side, and Nick stood, dressed down to his shirt and slacks. His sleeve was torn and dyed; a large hole where Four’s shot had met its mark marring the fabric. Tom had managed to patch him up, though his arm still hung loosely at his side. “Accusations are one thing,” he began, “but you don’t have a clue.” The synth joined alongside Deacon and Hancock, “No facts, no evidence. Give me one reason to believe this isn’t a personal squabble.” He peeked back to Turner and caught her eye, “But until then.”

The entire Railroad went silent. How could Desdemona prove a thing? How could she stand up to the convictions of not only a synth, but one of their own, and the mayor the town they often operated through? She had nothing and no one to back her up, and the remaining agents trained tentatively on her for an answer.

Desdemona had none.

Relenting, she bit her tongue. It was no white flag, but Turner and the others took it as a sign that she’d stepped down. “Fine. But what do you intend we do now? Where will we go?”

\---

Diamond City could be called paranoid, maybe even xenophobic, but that hadn’t stopped Nick Valentine from proposing a temporary solution. It might, and probably would be difficult getting the remains of the Railroad into the confines of one of the most secure establishments in the Commonwealth, but that didn’t stop the detective. The most he would have to explain would be to his assistant, Ellie, why there were fifteen people loitering around their agency for the night.

“Need to drag out another coat. I’d say this one’s about through.” Nick tugged at his dyed sleeve and played with the bullet hole in the fabric. Turner tugged on the fabric, accidentally tearing it further with a snort. There was already a patch or two on the sleeve, and now she was aggravating the damage further. Purposefully, Nick was sure.

“I should think about dirtying Hancock’s coat. Maybe he’d wear something different for once.” She jested, and Nick swatted her hand away from tearing the hole in his sleeve any larger.

The ghoul let out a huff of a laugh, like the idea was absurd. “Yeah, and you’d get the bill, sunshine. What would I wear then, huh?” he nudged her with his elbow and easily pushed her into Nick’s side, “If you wanted me to wear nothin’, all you had to do was ask.”

So much for subtlety.

“I’m keepin’ the hat on, though.”

Turner didn’t doubt Hancock would waltz around naked as a jaybird with nothing save his hat. It wouldn’t bother him in the slightest, especially if he knew it got her hot and bothered. There was nothing funnier to the ghoul than seeing her stress under the collar. But she refused to show any reaction to the comment, and knocked his hat clean from his head.

The wind did the rest.

\---

Paladin Riddik did not acknowledge the body stowed away on the Vertibird, didn’t dare notice the way Four slumped lifelessly in his seat. Nine and Eleven took great care in seeing their brother was taken back to the Prydwen where he would be seen off by the Elder and the entirety of the Brotherhood.

Riddik’s gaze never left the horizon, not even as the Vertibird listed through the air. Down below, somewhere amongst the labyrinth of destruction like the rat that she was, hid Turner. Their stance went rigid at the thought, cape clenched tightly in their metal digits.

Not only had the traitor escaped, but allied herself once again with an abomination of science, some synth like Metro before him. And Turner had the audacity to slay another brother of the great Brotherhood of Steel.

Perhaps Riddik had been wrong in wanting to prolong her inevitable fate. It would have been an excellent game, having her know the Brotherhood would destroy the Railroad piece by pathetic piece until she surrendered herself. But they hadn’t expected to lose a knight in the process. An allusion to chess came to mind, suddenly, but Riddik banished it nearly as quick as it appeared.

Four had been foolish, too head strong for his own good, too caught up in the urge to impress the Paladin that he allowed himself an opening. A moment just long enough for Turner to take the shot that would end him.

Look at what became of him.

No, this wasn’t a game anymore. The Railroad was on the run, but like a radstag with its flank to the wall it would fight tooth and nail to see itself free.

Riddik calmed in the familiar hum of the Vertibird’s engines, even as the world around them raced past.

Oh, how Turner would see justice at their hands.

Not the Elder’s. Not Maxson’s.

Riddik’s, and Riddik’s alone.

\---

The thrum of the Prydwen was anything but a balm, and as Four was carried away from the Vertibird Riddik halted. From the head of the landing Maxson watched, the lifeless knight and his brothers passing the Elder to enter the airship. It wasn’t an uncommon sight, but nevertheless if was an ill omen.

Maxson did not falter at the sight and came down the steps slowly, hands behind his back and chin held high. Shoulders squared, the Elder stood before Riddik.

He noticed there was no traitor in sight, no diminutive Turner bound and shackled. Obviously, something was amiss.

“Report, Paladin.”

\---

Deacon disappeared from their merry band not long ago, something Nick hadn’t noticed until well into the evening when they neared the gates of the city. The banter between Turner and Hancock had been nothing but entertaining and served as a good distraction, but all the while the detective wondered how the ghoul would make his way into the city.

Nick knew the goings on, past and present, and wasn’t a stranger to the events that unfolded in Diamond City long before Turner showed up at its door. The banishment of ghouls from the city under the authority of the then freshly elected mayor, and the revolt his own brother held against him.

Of course the kid was no stranger to what had happened. No doubt it had come up in conversation with the two friends at one point. The ghoul didn’t strike him as the type to hide something from Turner, even if it hurt to talk about. Even so, the city would all but shun him should he come to its doorstep in all his ghoulish glory.

If Hancock was worried, he certainly didn’t show it.

A small pebble struck at Nick’s back and pulled him from his thoughts, and behind him Turner stood with a handful of rocks both big and small. She threw another pebble at his arm with a grin. “Hey, Nick, I spy with my little eye something brown.” He went to open his mouth to answer, but she stopped him, “And don’t you dare say everything.”

She was learning.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.” He replied with a wry smile, “Alright. Something brown that’s not ‘everything’. How ‘bout,” his eyes searched the street. Just about everything from the ground to the buildings was either brown or a dark grey, and Nick found it was rather difficult to point out one thing in particular. “Hmm. I was going to say your upper lip, but that’d be in poor taste.”

Turner dropped her rocks to the ground and her hands shot up quick as lightning to cover her mouth, her brows furrowed and jaw set tight. Hancock snorted and fiddled with a jet inhaler at her side. “Fine,” she floundered, and yanked her hands away, “I spy something old and busted.”

So this is how they were to spend the evening. Back to basics as it were.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, then. Alright, I can play that game.” Nick slowed his pace so he walked alongside Turner and Hancock, pinning the girl in the middle. “I spy something with a mouth too big for its own good and a bird’s nest on its head.” He stared down the slope of his nose to the girl and watched her cheeks flush.

“A mailbox.” Hancock mumbled and exhaled a thin puff into the air. “No, wait.”

Why Turner insisted on getting herself into these situations, Nick would never know. But damn, if it wasn’t entertaining.

Hancock leant forward and joined in, “Ooh, that’s a tough one, Nick. Take it easy on sunshine.” The two of them joined forces in staring her down. “It sure ain’t a mailbox.”

And even as she crossed her arms and waddled faster, they didn’t relent until she started to throw rocks over her shoulder, missing by a mile every time.

\---

The gates of Diamond City greeted the group, and altogether the Railroad was an anxious mess. But as they drew near to the partially opened gates, there on the counter of the guard station sat a man with an all-too familiar pair of sunglasses. He kicked his legs back and forth, hitting the wall of the counter with his dirtied boots and whistling an off tune song.

Nick hadn’t recognised the agent at first, but the way Turner easily approached the man spoke volumes.

Deacon was the perfect entry into the city, all save for Hancock. The ghoul’s presence would still pose a problem, and hopefully the dressed up agent conjured up a plan in the time he went missing.

Nick could easily make his way within without question, maybe even with one or two of the agents at his side, but a group this large would only arouse suspicion.

The “guard” jumped from his seat and sauntered his way around Turner, baton swinging around his finger and hand on his hip. “I’m gonna need to see some identification.”

Turner shoved a fistful of rocks into Deacon’s waiting hand and blew a rather wet raspberry at his unperturbed face. That seemed to do the trick. “Good enough.” He dumped the rocks without a second thought, “Gotta hand it to ya, Railroad in Diamond City ain’t a half bad idea. Glad I thought of it.”

Deacon drew Turner up under his arm and together they faced the dismissive glare of Desdemona, “Safest place in the Commonwealth. Brotherhood ain’t gonna come knockin’ any time soon.”

“You sure about this? You really want us bunking in your place for the night?” Turner asked Nick, but Deacon put his hand to her mouth to shush her. He all but expected the wet tongue against his palm, and ran the slobbering mess down the side of her face as payback.

“Anyone asks, we’re your clients.”

“That’s one hell of a case.” Nick caught the look on Turner’s face before she bit down on one of Deacon’s fingers, “But it might just work. For the night, at least.”

“There’s a house in the square that’s been up for grabs for a while now. We scrounge up enough caps and it’s ours. I’m sure the mayor is ready for someone to take it off his hands.” The Railroad looked from one another to Deacon. Caps were in short supply, but surely they could strike some kind of deal to get the place for cheap.

“It’s too late tonight, isn’t it?” Turner asked, but wished she hadn’t.

“Is it past your bedtime?” Nick interjected. “I don’t mind keeping you all for the night.”

“Have fun dealing with McDonough.” Hancock scoffed and kicked one of Turner’s rocks harder than he should have. “I’m sure he’ll be more than friendly.” Sarcasm was one of the ghoul’s strong suits, but he was giving even Nick a run for his money.

Deacon released Turner and threw a heavy bundle toward the ghoul mayor without warning. Hancock stumbled forward to catch it, and began to search through the contents. A full gas mask, a hood, and some gloves greeted him.

Of course he would have to wear a disguise.

Turner felt guilty at the somber expression that crossed his face. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right Hancock had to go through hoops to enter the city, but she would hate herself if she left him behind on the stoop like a kicked puppy. “It’ll only be for a bit. Just so we can get in and settled.” She strutted up to him and took the gas mask, “Besides, it’ll make you look rugged.”

A genuine laugh escaped the ghoul, “Rugged, huh? First time I’ve heard that coming from you.” He grew a lopsided grin and the weight on him lifted. Whisking the hat from his head, Hancock placed it on Turner slightly skewed. “Fine, but I’m leaving this,” he pulled on the gas mask and bent forward to whisper in her ear, “on for our next romp.”

Turner made a noise like a cross between a squawk and a giggle, and tried her best to hide the red on her face. Too bad Nick spotted the red rushing to her ears. “Keep at that, and she’ll be as red as a tato.” The synth joined in a laugh with Deacon and Hancock as Turner collected her rocks again.

\---

The group entered the city one by one after the coast was clear of any other security officers, up until Turner, Nick, Hancock, and Deacon remained outside. The four of them passed through the gates into the city and remained as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to see the synth detective returning with a client or two, and the “security guard” kept them all the more out of public question.

Deacon made a face at Turner as the scope of the ball field greeted them, and grasped her tightly by the arms from behind. “I’ll tell the rest of security I’ve caught a dangerous criminal.” He jostled her as they moved down the grate incline, “Watch out, she’s a real lady killer.” There was a pause, “Get it? ‘Lady’ killer.”

“Well known for her Napoleon complex and mistreatment of teddy bears.” Nick joked, and Turner pulled away from Deacon’s hold. “Dangerous and possibly armed with knickknacks and bric-a-bracs.” Turner went to throw her bundle of rocks, but they slipped from her hands and through the holes in the grating. “Never mind.”

“Good for you I don’t know what I Neapolitan is.” Turner mocked, but her naivety only made Nick laugh harder. It was amusing she knew the word Neapolitan but not Napoleon. Some things he couldn’t explain to her, especially old world vernacular and colloquialisms. He noticed, however, she didn’t bother to deny the “teddy bear mistreatment” jab, and he was reminded of mirelurks and having his hat thrown from his head.

The lights on Publick Occurrences building flickered in the night, but barely made a difference in the bright lights of the stadium. A woman in a red coat and messenger hat sat outside on the curb, a young girl presumed to be her sister next to her. Together they read over a sheet of paper, the newest of Publick Occurrences’ bulletins.

The woman in red glanced up to catch Nick and his strange band of misfits, and a look of curiosity crossed over her face. The detective made sure to tip his hat in salutation before moving quickly on. It would do no good in letting Piper ask questions.

\---

The door to the Valentine Detective Agency was slightly ajar when they approached, and Turner was the first to push it open. Within the confines of the small office, the agents of the Railroad congregated.

If only it were this busy when Nick needed it to be.

The four of them stood in the doorway, the three at Turner’s back looking over her small frame and wondering if shutting the door back again was the best option. As if reading their minds, Turner turned around to scarper, but three sets of hands easily twisted her back to face reality.

Nick squeezed into the office and stood beside Turner to assess the situation. They were in a tight spot. Literally.

“It’s just for the night.” Turner reassured herself, “Gonna get everyone to pool together their caps and head to the mayor first thing in the morning.” And maybe a drink or ten, she told herself.

Deacon and Hancock followed in suit and shut the door with a click, and finally the ghoul was able to pull of his mask. “Fuck, it’s hot in that thing.” He shoved it into his belt loop and removed the hood from his head. Next, he plucked his hat from Turner’s head and placed it back where it rightfully belonged, “As much as I like to see you in it, sunshine, it just don’t feel the same.”

“I’ll just steal Nick’s.” her hand went to grab at the synth’s hat, but he swatted her hand gently. “With him and Deacon combined, they could power the city if the sun hit them just right.” Turner gave Nick a smarmy grin, but two could play at that game.

“Sure, you could steal it, but you’d have to be able to reach it first.” She narrowed her eyes at the synth and blew up a stray bang from her face. “How’s the view from down there? What’s the altitude like that close to the ground?”

Turner scrunched her nose and pursed her lips in annoyance.

“Don’t worry,” Deacon added and shook her. “I’ll get you a ladder for Christmas.”

The door behind them suddenly opened, and everyone in the agency spun immediately to the noise.

A young woman stood in the alcove outside the door, a patchwork bag slung over her shoulder and eyes wide to what must have been a good dozen or so guns aimed at her. Her hands flew up and she backed away into the hall outside, and Nick was quick to step out into the night.

He closed the door behind him to keep away wandering eyes and pressed his back against it, “Evening, Ellie.” He kept a firm grasp on the handle of the door, knowing full well Turner was the one jostling it around. “Let me explain.”

Ellie adjusted her bag and pivoted her hip. It was too late in the evening for shenanigans. “Better make it a good one, Nick. Last thing I hear from you, you’re headed out with someone from the Railroad, and that was almost a week ago.” Her tone wasn’t accusing, but the detective knew it must have been a strange sight when returning home. “Are they with the Railroad, or are they clients?”

Turner wriggled the door handle again, and Nick could hear Hancock’s muffled voice through the wood mockingly commenting, “Is she your girlfriend?”

“Cute.” Ellie huffed and placed a hand on her forehead.

“Listen, they got stuck in a rough patch, and I’m trying to help get them on their feet again. It’s just for tonight.” Turner got the door open by just a smidge to peer outside, but she was met with a stern look on the synth’s face nary an inch from hers.

The door snapped shut again, and this time without protest.

“Look, Nick, Piper already invited me over, said she saw you earlier with I can only guess is them.” She pointed at the door, “I said I’d grab a few things and head back.” Whether it was true or not, Nick felt somewhat better that Ellie already had plans for the night, “She saw you guys and now she’s curious. At least I can keep her off your back for a while.”

“You’re a life saver, Ellie.” The detective led her back to the door and into the agency, roving toward the end of the hall with a wave. He pushed her past the curious eyes and ears that cluttered his office, and up into her room. All the while, Turner poked her head out from around the corner and watched.

\---

It took just about every last cap they had, but the Railroad managed to gather a little over 1,500 caps. Surely, that would be enough. Turner worried the price would be too steep, but with Deacon’s superb snooping skills they’d managed to get a decent approximation… and maybe a slight modification to the price in the Mayor’s assistant’s terminal.

Turner couldn’t possibly afford to buy herself a drink at a time like this, no matter how much she craved one. Hell, seeing the way the agents now huddled together on the shared bedrolls only made her feel that much more guilty.

She would simply go without.

Without drink.

And without sleep.

Even Hancock and Deacon slumbered toward the back of the agency, just next to an unoccupied bed, and she herself was bundled beside them. Perhaps it belonged to Ellie, she believed her name was, Nick’s assistant or confidant or… something. And Nick had stepped out an hour or so ago to walk her over to her friend’s place. “Way to make a guy feel uncomfortable in his own home.” She scolded herself.

Turner stood and exited her sleeping bag. Tiptoeing silently with her bedroll in hand, she attempted to avoid waking the ghoul and the liar as she crept up the stairs. On the second floor, she was shocked to find another bed, the warm glow of a lantern filling the small space. The room was quaint with its inviting glow and various books scattered about on the floor.

A dress lay out on the bed with a pair of shoes tucked underneath the frame on the floor. It must have been Ellie’s, Turner deduced, and glanced down through the spaces in the stairs to the threadbare bed. Could it be Nick’s? He told her himself he didn’t need sleep. Maybe he would lay there when he did diagnostics? Or if he needed to think. “Maybe when he defrags his hard drive.” She thought with a dumb smile.

Clambering into the room fully, Turner spotted a door leading out onto the rooftop and quietly opened it. The night wind blew in for a moment through the crack and she was met with the bright light of an overhead lamp, and soon enough she stood outside on the cold metal of the roof.

The lights of the city didn’t look much different from up there, not that she was high enough to begin with, but she partially hoped there would be some sense of wonder to it all. Sadly, there was none, and the moths fluttering around the lamp above her weren’t any more grand than the ones she slept near back in North End Church.

Being in the agency made her anxious. Cramped with so many bodies, she hardly had room to lay down herself, let alone think. There on the roof, she could at least ponder.

Bedroll laid out, Turner gazed up at the stars through the thin veil of clouds. She could breathe there, alone with her thoughts, and wondered if maybe she could watch the sunrise for the first time in years.

The last time she’d spent the whole night awake to watch the sun come up, the Capital Wasteland had been her home. Maxson had been there, watched the sun with--

She shook her head and jostled in her sleeping bag, pulling it up high around her chin. She shimmied in further until her ears were covered from the chill, her nose buried against the warm cloth.

If only she could shut off, not think, and let sleep take her.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

\---

The door to the agency slowly hinged open, and Nick diligently crept his way inside and down the hall without waking a soul. Everyone looked in attendance when he found Hancock and Deacon, but he half expected to find Turner wedged between the two stealing their warmth. He thought about sneaking a peek under the bed to see if she’d wriggled her way in with the dust bunnies, but stopped himself short when a noise caught his attention.

“Psst.” He turned toward the noise to find Deacon, but the Agent only pointed his finger up toward the ceiling. Sneaky bastard had been awake the entire time. Even in sleep, those sunglasses of his stayed, and he supposed then that was the point.

The detective took the hint and headed upstairs and into Ellie’s room. The stairs creaked under his metal frame and showered dust down upon his unused mattress. He felt guilty for having her stay the night with Piper, but he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable with all his newfound “friends” invading her space. He only hoped Piper wouldn’t pry too much into what was going on, lest he find the reporter at his door in the morning.

Then again, even if Ellie had managed to move Piper in the wrong direction, he was sure enough the reporter would find her way there eventually. It was only a matter of time.

But Turner was nowhere to be found on the second floor, not on or under the bed, not up in the rafters waiting to pounce on him, and most certainly not under the floor boards.

“If not in, then perhaps out.” Nick concluded and silently made his way to the roof.

Lucky for the synth, the chill of the night didn’t bother him in the slightest, and in an hour or two the sun would rise to warm the city. And yet, he still pulled the collar of his coat up and around his neck. Some inkling told him it was the thing to do given the situation, an old tick he couldn’t shake.

The roof was empty, but coming around the corner Nick found Turner sat against the wall away from the bite of the wind. She was wide awake, eyes sunken and dark, and she didn’t look comfortable in the least bundled in her sleeping bag like some kind of cocoon.

She looked vulnerable, and well, she was. Diamond City was a safe haven, but that didn’t mean it was safe from itself. Sleeping there on the roof was almost asking for trouble.

Nick stepped out of the wind and they locked eyes for a moment. What could he say? Words escaped him when he needed them most.

“Working on your caterpillar impression? Didn’t think they liked the cold.” It was a weak comment, forced humour on his part, but he could think of nothing else to say. He relented when she didn’t answer and took a seat against the wall with her. There wasn’t much he could do otherwise save for going back inside.

After he dropped Ellie off at Piper’s, Takahashi had been a good talk for about a half hour, but even that grew monotonous after a while. After that, he perused through Percy’s shop for anything he might have needed: cigarettes, oil, maybe some new pens, and… then something else caught his eye.

The bundle in Nick’s coat dug into the hole on the left side of his chest, pushing his shirt up against his exposed chassis. In the open air he lit himself a cigarette, and together they sat in silence.  He adjusted himself and took a long draw from his cigarette, “What’s eating ya, kid?”

“Can’t sleep.” Turner replied through the fabric of her sleeping bag.

“You don’t say.” Another silence followed, and the smoke from Nick’s cigarette filled the air. “Was poking around Percy’s shop after walking Ellie over, and found something. Thought of you when I saw it.”

A look of perplexity crossed Turner’s visage and she stared out from the top of her sleeping bag, face half hidden. The synth dug into his coat with his free hand and brought out a teddy bear missing one ear and a patched up leg. He held it for a moment before handing it to her.

She pulled down her sleeping bag to take the ragdoll teddy in hand. Turner didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t go throwing this one at any mirelurks, alright? Looks like they’ve been through enough trouble already.” Turner squeezed it like she expected it to squeak, and Nick chuckled lightly, “And don’t use it for target practise. Your aim needs some work, but I’m sure they’d like it if you found something else.”

The teddy bear found its way into the confines of her sleeping bag where it disappeared, caught in a tight hug. Turner was silent as the soft fabric of the teddy pressed against her neck.

Why? That was all she could ask herself. Why did he…

She pulled her sleeping bag closer and tucked it beneath her chin sheepishly. “Thank you…” she had a hard enough time meeting his gaze, especially now that it trained so intently on her, “Thanks, Nick.” She buried her face once again into the bag so that only her eyes peeked out. “I promise won’t use them as target practise.”

“You’re welcome, kid.” He chewed on the end of his cigarette and finished it, flicking it toward the edge of the roof.

“At least not when you’re around.”

“I didn’t expect any different.”

\---

High above the city, situated in one of the skyboxes left hanging from the rafters, Mayor McDonough paced. In his office, he thought alone, and in the dim of the room only the terminal provided light. He drew on his cigar greedily and marched from one end of the room to the other.

He had nothing. Nothing to show his superiors for his efforts. The city was quiet, but the danger, the suspicion concerning him remained. How dare that reporter challenge him, accuse him of being a synth! What did she know? What evidence could she possibly have?

And to add insult to injury, someone had been in his office poking around in his assistant’s terminal! But for what? There was nothing of interest, nothing forthcoming within those databanks, and yet…

McDonough made his way to the grand open windows overlooking his city, and scanned from the seats down into the market and back again. There was someone out there coming dangerously close to his secrets, and it was only a matter of time until the Courser arrived. What would he tell them?

It didn’t matter. He would continue doing what he’d always done. And in the morning, he would see to it that the Courser left satisfied.

This was his city! He earned it! And he, Mayor McDonough, wasn’t about to let some rat take it from him.

\---

Up Next:

BONUS Chapter: April Fool’s Day - The Manic Mechanist!

Chapter 9: Danger on the Home Front

\---


	9. April Fool's Day! The Manic Mechanist!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! This chapter isn't part of the actual story! I just wanted to post a nice joke chapter for April Fool's Day!
> 
> It was so much fun writing this one, actually!
> 
> Here's the playlist for this chapter! 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCiktNhVzW1SIpn_oG61I6eKOZFqVslnT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A real chapter will be out tomorrow, April 2nd, so stay tuned for that!

\---

Boston was abuzz with life the night of the grand opening of Robotics Fair. All walks of life perused the halls littered with new automatons and robots, from the simple handyman to the all new VTOL vertibird. Hundreds of people must have been there to see all the fantastic inventions that would soon grace their homes, but little did they know trouble was afoot!

From above, the windows shattered, crashing down like a thousand stars onto the innocent onlookers. And from the hole in the roof the manic mechanical menace appeared.

**The Mechanist!**

The Mechanist descended into the fray of scattering people, their robots flooding the room from every entrance, every window, and every air vent. The room was filled to the brim with human and robot alike, but none stood to withstand the might of the master of machines.

All those prototypes, blueprints, and new age bots were theirs and theirs alone as the bystanders fled under the threat of death from the numerous robots in the room. The Mechanist finally stood alone amongst their creations and exclaimed loudly to no one save themselves. “Pitiful humans, you stand no chance against the might of the Master of Machines!”

The Mechanist threw their fists into the air and excitedly ran forward to grasp at a modified Eyebot. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, such smooth lines and sharp angles, for if the Mechanist could cry surely a tear would roll down their cheek. “Come, my creations! Collect what you can carry! Leave nothing behind!”

But wait! From the entrance raced a black and silver shadow, and in the threshold of the door stood the valiant Silver Shroud! Beside them came the Mistress of Mystery, truly a beauty if the Mechanist ever beheld one. But now was not the time for gawking or such flights of fancy.

“You’re too late, Shroud!” The Mechanist cried out, and extended a single finger toward the duo, “Destroy them, my machines!”

The Silver Shroud’s golden eyes scanned the room, from one robot to the next, and then finally to the Mistress of Mystery at his side. She gazed up at him, green eyes staring back from under a veil of shimmering ebon. Even beneath the thin gossamer the Shroud could see their faint freckles and reddened cheeks.

The Silver Shroud took a single step forward as the machines advanced on them, forming a tight circle around the duo.  He drew his iconic silver submachine gun and pointed it skyward. “Wrong move, Mechanist! Death has come for you, and I… am its Shroud!”

The Silver Shroud fired into the thrum of robots, and soon they began to fall, decommissioned and deconstructed! The Mistress of Mystery ran into the fray and struck down the remainder with a glimmering pistol, felling the machines easily. This was clockwork for the duo, and soon the haywire machines were nothing but scrap!

The Mechanist stumbled back. To see their creations destroyed like simple children’s toys enraged them! How dare they! How dare the Silver Shroud and Mistress of Mystery foil their plans! “Again, my creations! Stop these simpletons, stop the Silver Shroud!”

Another wave of robots rushed into the room and swarmed around the duo, and soon the two could nary see one another through the chaos. The Mechanist took this opportune moment to steal away the Eyebot on display and rush from the room. Several bots chased behind them and out of the Robotics Fair, disappearing into the night with a tinny laugh echoing through the air.

The robots became too numerous, too many, and even the Shroud and Mistress struggled to withstand the assault. The Mistress of Mystery dug into her belt and produced two silver capsules in hand, three modified Assaultrons grasping her tightly. “Shroud!” she threw down the pellets and the room was quickly engulfed in smoke, a thick miasma that blinded the optics of the automatons in the room.

The Mistress broke free from her bonds and downed the blinded bots with ease, picking away at the bots that covered the Silver Shroud.

Once the Shroud stood freely, the Mistress ran to him and dusted away an offending appendage that clung to his coat. “I’m alright, Mistress.” He pulled down the silver scarf covering his mouth and gave a reassuring smile, “But the Mechanist? Where?”

“Gone, Shroud. Escaped with the Eyebot.” The Mistress of Mystery glanced around the room at the wreckage that surrounded them. Dozens of robots littered the floor, a macabre scene out of an insane toy factory. All too fitting for the manic Mechanist’s dubious crimes. “What did they want with it?”

“What does the Mechanist want with anything? Fame? Glory? Power? No,” The Shroud clasped the Mistress by the shoulders and looked her deep in the eyes, gold against green. “The Mechanist won’t stop until machines cover the earth. Won’t stop until you and I,” but his words stumbled at the expression that crossed her face, “But we won’t let him. Let us leave, Mistress. Before--”

Outside! Sirens wailed through the night air and the sound of helicopters could be heard hovering over them, their lights shining down to find the devious perpetrators. The Silver Shroud pulled up his mask once more and grasped the Mistress’ wrist. “Quickly, this way.”

They would leave this place and give chase after the Mechanist! They would stop the master of machines before it was too late!

\---

The Mechanist paced back and forth, from one end of the room to the other. Beside them, floating through the air, was their faithful companion, Sparks. “Blast it all!” They exclaimed to the robots that sat against the walls, hurling a large wrench in frustration. Sparks flew up to dodge the swipes from their Master as they continued their rampage through the factory, only coming back down when the metal clad machinist calmed and cooled.

The Mechanist leant against a computer terminal and pondered, racking their brilliant mind for some out, some way to combat the Silver Shroud and Mistress of Mystery. And as if struck with a brilliant thought, they sprang up.

“Genius!” They cried.

Sparks flew away from them frightened and quivered from behind a slew of inactive automatons. Their antennae twitched up and down as they watched their master spin and race to the other side of the room.

“I have it, Sparks!” The Mechanist exclaimed and hoisted up the most recent edition of the _Boston Bugle_ , shaking it in a clenched fist. Sparks peeked from their hiding spot and flew out into the open at the waving paper. “You see! The Silver Shroud will have no choice but to reveal himself. He and the Mistress of Mystery!”

They threw down the paper onto their workbench and pointed at the prime article, hand splayed across the newspaper. Sparks digested what they could, optics scanning the black ink.

**“ROBOTICS EXHIBITION TONIGHT AT STATE HOUSE”**

The Mechanist took Sparks in hand and spun gleefully around, their metal clad feet clanking loudly on the stonework floor. “They will think I, the Mechanist, will show at this exhibition! But little do they know!” They released Sparks mid spin and grasped a long handled wrench tightly. “It is they who will show! And be caught like the vigilantes they are! Sparks!”

The dutiful Eyebot flew back toward their master and waited for their command. “Tonight, we send out this Eyebot,” they swung at the disassembled Eyebot on the workbench, the very same stolen from the previous Robotics Fair, “And we snare the Silver Shroud!”

The Mechanist laughed loudly in their workshop, the sound bouncing about through the lines of robots, to hundreds of creations that would listen to their commands alone. The Mechanist would win this night! And the Silver Shroud would be no more!

\---

The Robotics Exhibition was in full swing, and the Old State House was filled to the brim with potential buyers and supporters of such upcoming technology. What better place for the Mechanist to strike next?

The Silver Shroud and Mistress of Mystery stood on the roof of an apartment across the way, spying the exhibition in full swing. The Silver Shroud knew the Mechanist’s ways, and did not doubt such a potential hive of technology would be their next stop.

The Mistress leant heavy on one leg and crossed her arms tightly across her chest. She was unsure about the exhibition. Of course the Mechanist would be interested, but would they dare strike out so soon after being thwarted not nearly a day ago? Regardless, she would support the Shroud and his endeavor to stop the manic machinist.

The Shroud lowered his binoculars and turned to the Mistress. The air was filled with chatter below and the rhythmic beat of muffled music, but that did not dissuade him from speaking freely. “Are you ready? The Mechanist could appear at any moment!” He watched her sigh in return, and for a moment he worried she did not approve of such a quick decision on their part. “I know how you worry, Mistress. But do not fear.”

“I’m not afraid, Shroud. Not for me.” She clarified, but did not elaborate. His luminescent eyes scanned over her, and finally he understood what she meant. But he said nothing, did not acknowledge her worry for his safety.

At a time like that, he could not dare to lower his guard, even to console the worry of a dear… he struggled for the right word. Friend? Lover? He wasn’t quite sure himself.

\---

The Statehouse was alive with music and chatter. The wealthy within didn’t so much pay attention to the robotics on display as they paid attention to themselves. Wealth abound was on show that evening, and everyone tried their damndest to outdo one another. With leaps and bounds, one boisterous claim would be replaced with another just as ludicrous and unabashed.

This wasn’t a show of machines, but a show of money! Wealth and power and everything in between! And unbeknownst to the crowd below, the duo watched on from the skylights, silent guardians to whatever would befall the denizens of Boston that night.

The Mistress of Mystery scanned through the crowd, and not a thing seemed out of place. Which was all the more odd and telling. Something, no doubt, would happen. Things were going too according to plan… Unless!

Down below, the people parted for a new display, a mysterious unmarked crate pushed forward by a freshly polished protectron donned with a simple bowtie and bowler hat. The people cooed and gawked at such an adorable machine and eagerly awaited whatever surprise lay in store for them. But the Mistress and Shroud were all the more suspicious.

“Look there, Shroud!” The Mistress of Mystery pointed, “Perhaps you were right.”

“Let us not be so sure yet.” He replied and joined in following the ambling protectron.

The machine teetered this way and that, pushing the metal cart forward until it stood in the center of the room. It came to a stop and pivoted at its center, calling the attention of all the attendees with the drawl of a monotone voice. “Come. One. Come. All. See. The. Future. Now.”

The people drew close and with baited breath waited. But oh, how they did not expect the crate to burst open! A unified gasp escaped the room, and as the walls of the crate fell, a single Eyebot hovered.

Then there came a laugh. What a humorous joke to egg on the crowd! But too late did they realize what was in store for them!

From the underbelly of the Eyebot came a readied laser, and without second thought the Silver Shroud burst into action. Through the skylight, the Shroud fell followed by the Mistress of Mystery, and together they landed before the mass of people.

The Eyebot stuttered for a moment, the laser on its belly twitching to and fro before aiming square at a young woman in the crowd. The Mistress jumped in front of her, arms extended to catch whatever the small robot could dish out, but was taken aback not a moment later.

The laser charged rapidly, an angry red glow at its barrel, but with a loud pop a yellow flag shot forward. “BANG” was scrawled on the flag and for comedic effect streamers and confetti littered the room from a hatch on its top, exploding forth with a loud pop.

The Shroud soon was covered in multi-coloured paper, and the Mistress relaxed. The crowd joined in raucous laughter and thought the whole thing a play, a joke set about for their own amusement! How silly for the Shroud and Mistress to grace them in such a way! What a show!

The Mistress of Mystery came to stop at the Silver Shroud’s side, and together they looked on through the laughter. Something was afoot, some devious, nefarious plot! The Mechanist didn’t wish to embarrass them, no. What would they gain from such a thing?

And with that, the Eyebot jumped forward and aimed the flag at another onlooker. And before the Shroud could react, the flag shot forward and embedded itself deep in the chest of a well-dressed businessman. Bang, indeed!

A shrill scream echoed through the party, and soon chaos ensued. But upon coming to the doors, the crowd only found them to be locked, and they themselves trapped alongside the Shroud and Mistress. They were trapped with the haywire machine and its cohort, the bowler hat-clad protectron.

They would save them! They had to! The Shroud would never let such a crime go unpunished, and neither would the beautiful Mistress! But what would they do? How would they combat such foes?

From the back of the room, the metal marauder, the mechanical monster, the Mechanist appeared. The crowd parted ways to allow them passage and the metal-clad villain strutted forward. At their side trotted several more robots, tall and top heavy, their arms weighed down with formidable weaponry. Such a display of power over the small people of Boston!

 “Salutations, Silver Shroud! So valiant! So brave!” The metal visage of the Mechanist turned to the Mistress of Mystery next, “And Mistress! Be still, my metal heart.”

“It will be soon enough, Mechanist.” She replied with increased fervor. “What is it you want, fiend?”

“Oh, I want but one thing.” The Mechanist raised a single finger and the curious Eyebot shot over to them, “It’s simple enough. You reveal your identities, and I allow these…” they looked about the congregation, “people to leave. If you do not comply…”

With one strike against the top of the Eyebot, a count-down timer shot out of its grated face and an overloaded power core from its top. Red numbers clicked down, and in no less than a minute doomsday would befall them. “Then you and the innocent people of Boston will feel the might of the Mechanist!”

The Silver Shroud and Mistress of Mystery locked eyes. How could they reveal themselves to one of their mortal enemies? Not only would their lives be in jeopardy, but who was to say the Mechanist was telling the truth? But they could hardly risk the lives of innocent civilians. They had to do what must be done!

The Silver Shroud was the first to take a step forward toward the Mechanist, hands and silver submachine gun held up in surrender. “We will comply, Mechanist. For the good of these people, we will comply with your wishes.”

“Give me your gun, Shroud!” The Mechanist ordered. The Silver Shroud stopped in their tracks and slowly lowered their arm, gun in hand. The metal maniac snatched the gun from the Shroud’s grasp and retreated back, barrel aimed squarely at the duo.

“Shroud, you can’t.” The Mistress of Mystery whispered. All around them the people watched on, curious and mesmerized. Would they get to see the identity of their stalwart vigilantes at last? Or would they all fall to the same fate?

“Do not fret, Mistress.” The Shroud assured her, but she felt no different. He moved to pull down the silver scarf from around his face, but he had other plans. Suddenly, his free hand shot up and produced a smoke bomb, striking it against the floor.

The room was flooded with smoke, and in one moving spot it was dyed a deep red. The Mistress of Mystery took this time to dash forward and grab the Eyebot that stood out obviously against the smoke, letting out a yell as the Mechanist fired into the fray with the silver submachine gun.

The Mistress fell to the floor with the Eyebot and took hold of the overloaded power core. Slowly but surely she scanned the numerous wires connected to the device, the clock still counting down to their doom. One by one she disconnected the wires, sure that the next would be her last should she do them incorrectly. She continued until only one remained.

She pulled the red wire from the power core and with a flash the Eyebot fell dead in her lap, all power lost to the poor machine. The clock on its face blinked three times before fading out to a blank screen.

The sound of gunfire came back to her, and as the room began to clear, the crowd cowered on the floor alongside her. But the Silver Shroud and the Mechanist remained standing, and at last they faced one another.

The barrel of the silver submachine gun was aimed straight at the chest of the Silver Shroud, and without pause the Mechanist fired at the ebon clad defender.

The Shroud did not respond as the bullets struck him and ricocheted back at the Mechanist, striking the foul villain square in the chest. They fell to their knees and dropped the gun to the floor where it clanked away from their grasping hands.

“Foolish, Mechanist.” The Mistress of Mystery started as the Shroud helped pull her from the floor. “The Silver Shroud cannot be harmed by his own weapon!”

The Mechanist scrambled back on their hands away from the defiant duo, the eyes of the whole room trained on them. This was not how their plan was supposed to go! No, the Shroud was supposed to lose! Supposed to reveal their identity!

“Curse you, Shroud!” One fist shook at the two of them as they continued to crawl their way backwards.

The Mistress of Mystery strode forward and placed one heeled shoe against the Mechanist’s chest, stopping them dead in their tracks. They fumbled and fell into their back, their hands raised. “Mistress of Mystery, have mercy.” The Mechanist mewled, their synthesized voice pitiful and weak. “Please.”

“I will be merciful, Mechanist. This once.” The Silver Shroud appeared at her side, face hidden and gun back in hand. “But I cannot say the same for the police.”

\---

Once the smoke had cleared and the people of the exhibition took it upon themselves to tidy their appearance for the approaching police, the Mechanist was left a subdued mess. They sat on the floor, crestfallen and mulling, and if metal could frown the Mechanist would put Pagliacci to shame. They clicked the toes of their metal boots together and gazed up at the surrounding police, arms bound painfully behind their back.

Outside on the rooftops, the Shroud and Mistress watched on. The Mechanist would no longer threaten the good people of Boston, at least for the night. It was only a matter of time, the two of them knew, until their metal fiend reappeared seeking revenge!

But until then.

The Shroud turned to the Mistress with a lopsided smirk, his golden eyes staring out from under the brim of his fedora. She gave him a simple grin in return, and pulled off the thin veil obscuring her face. “It’s been fun, but I’m heading home. Don’t follow.”

“You wound me.” He replied and took her gently by the arm. “ _The night’s still young._ ”

The Mistress of Mystery gave him a look and batted the tip of his hat down. Blinded, she slipped from his grasp and blew a wet raspberry at him. “Yeah, and you aren’t. Good night, Nick.”

\---

**Will the Shroud ever woo the Mistress?! Will the Mechanist sit on their laurels, or will they seek revenge against the dubious duo?! And will Boston ever know the true identity of their selfless vigilantes?!**

**Tune in next time! Same time, same channel!**


	10. Danger on the Home Front

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, I had a bit of a hard time typing this one out uwu Probably because I did the april fool's one at the same time, huehue. That was a bad idea.

[ ](http://mathi-mathi-arts.tumblr.com/post/141401538308/esuerc-is-amazing-and-a-huge-inspiration-to-me-of)

Another Turner by the lovely Mathi-Mathi-Arts! Check them out!

\---

Together, Turner and Nick remained on the roof of the agency and watched the sun rise, filling the stadium in a warm, golden glow. Slowly, the city began to wake, and from up high the two followed the various store merchants meander about the square. Myrna, Arturo, and the weird guy with the baseball… swatters found their daily spots and soon the grind began.

Turner wasn’t so much mentally exhausted as she was physically. Over the past two hours, the two of them waited for the sun to rise, lazily talking about nothing in particular. But it helped lighten the mood between the two, made the air around them a little less thick. The talks didn’t near anything too personal, but all the while she held her newfound teddy bear to her chest.

She gave up trying to figure out why he’d done it. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was compensation for the pack of cigarettes she’d gotten him, or maybe it was just because. Regardless, they sat at ease at each other’s side and viewed the city.

The air grew warmer with the morning sun, and yet the bite of approaching winter remained. Lucky for the synth, the chill had no effect, and he even found it humorous the way Turner’s breath escaped in small puffs.

With the sun finally up over the horizon and the city bathed in golds and pinks, Nick placed a hand against the wall and stood, straightening out the wrinkles in his coat and fixing his collar. Turner swore she heard his knees creak and wanted to make a joke about buying him some oil, but she said nothing save a small snort in her nose. Maybe to pay back for the teddy bear, she would surprise him with some lube… though after second thought, she figured it might be misconstrued. Especially if Hancock was nearby.

She slithered out of her sleeping bag and rolled it up, and upon seeing Nick stare she placed the teddy bear in her hood where it would be “safe and sound”. “He already looks a mess.” She explained, “I ought to name it Nick.”

 With a shake to his head at the prod, the detective went to open the door to the agency. He waited a moment for her to come forth, but found she headed in the opposite direction across the roof. She jumped the gap toward Arturo’s home and then veered right up onto a higher rooftop. All the while, “Nick” the teddy bobbed from her hood, its head lolling from right to left.

“What’re you doin’, kid?” Nick questioned as he followed after the adventurous Railroad agent. Between his teeth he held an unlit cigarette, his flip lighter refusing to spark. He struck at it again, but the flame flickered out just as soon as it appeared. It would figure he had a decent pack of lights, but now nothing with which to light them. Lady Luck didn’t much care for him recently.

 Turner was dexterous, to say the least, as she balanced on a narrow beam running from one roof to the next. “I wanna see something.” She leapt again onto another roof, her hand on the teddy’s head for fear of it flying out of her hood. Barely a sound came from her landing, and she easily continued.

“Way to make an old man work for it.” Nick made the jump next, but landed loudly on the tin roof and cringed. He hoped whoever was inside was already awake. If not, they certainly were now.

Turner clambered up onto a final roof near a strangely placed school bus and looked out over the city. The clockwork detective appeared a moment later and let out a sigh. It was too early for all this “excitement”, but if the kid could manage without her forty winks then so could he. Hell, at this point, he half expected her to suddenly fall asleep then and there. And he wasn’t about to explain that one to Hancock. The words “mail call” came to mind and he let out a quiet chuckle.

Viewing Diamond City from there hadn’t been a thought on Nick’s mind. Perhaps the mayor’s skybox, but not there... Next to an oddly placed school bus. Not in that informal albeit comfortable space, not on top of someone else’s home, not in the quiet of some else’s presence. If he wanted to look suspicious, he’d just go stand next to Myrna’s shop all day without uttering a word. That would get her going right quick.

The city did appear differently, though, the vibrant reds of the flags hoisted on the boiler, the bright colours of the various tarps and old world signs, the green of the protective wall -- all aglow in the sun’s light. And Turner watched it all for a time, forgetting Nick was there until he spoke up. “Don’t suppose you want to head on up to the mayor’s office?” he began, hands in his coat pockets and eyes trained on the fluttering flags. “Never know if someone else has their eyes on the place.”

He made a good point. Turner squirreled down from her perch and joined him. She noticed then the unlit cigarette stuck in his mouth, and made a face. “Might want to leave the little guy behind.” The teddy’s remaining ear curled between his metal digits, “Unless they’re a good negotiator.”

“They’re the best negotiator. Can talk Hancock out of a lifetime supply of mentats.” Turner blew a short raspberry with a grin.

“If that’s the case, I’d hate to meet them in court.”

\---

Deacon handed over the pouch of caps like a brown bag lunch, and rustled Turner’s hair as they stepped out the door. Along came the costumed Hancock, his mask donned and hood pulled low. Together, they exited into the alley outside the agency, and were immediately waylaid by a cat.

The cat was a distraction for all of a minute, and Deacon almost refused to move. “Go on without me.” He wailed like the feline had him under hypnotic control. “Tell PAM I love her.”

Hancock stared down at his boots in dismay. Already there was a soreness in his legs just from the walk out the door. Today was the day he’d buy himself some new boots. He’d had enough of the pain in his knees to last him a lifetime, and he was almost sick of taking med-x to combat it. Almost.

Turner could have her fun with the mayor of Diamond City with Nick and Deacon in tow. She hardly needed his help. Though he was curious of how the city was doing as of late. Deacon, no doubt, would sate his curiosity later.

“Don’t have too much fun without me.” The ghoul cooed as he broke away in disguise and meandered around the square. Turner gave him a wave and told him to get a pair of heels to match the coat. “Don’t tempt me.” He warned. She worried that he actually contemplated the idea for a minute, but even through the mask she could tell there was a grin on his ghoulish face.

 The traveling band of misfits headed to the lift that would take them to the Mayor’s skybox. All they needed now was a small dog and a yellow brick road, and the look would be complete. Too bad for Nick, he doubted anyone would get that reference no matter how much he tried to explain it. Deacon might, but the master of lies was good at all things bullshit and un-candid.

 Luckily, no one was outside the Publick Occurrences building -- hopefully that meant Piper and Ellie were still asleep -- and Nick found himself momentarily glad. Last thing they needed that morning was the reporter interrogating them in the streets.

Turner was first to jump on the hanging lift, causing it to swing slightly. Deacon followed in tow, and then the detective. The two agents took turns in pressing the red button to activate the lift, watching as the walk platform began to pull in only to extend back out a fraction of a second later. This continued while Nick stood on the opposite end of the lift.

“The stairs would be quicker with you two at the wheel.” He scolded with a smile and pushed them out of the way of the button. Soon they ascended without conflict, mainly because the synth refused to remove himself from in front of the oh-so-tempting button.

The city was even more magnificent from that high in the air, and Turner took the chance to take it all in. She held firm to the yellow guard rail of the lift and leant out to see how high they were from the ground. They were only halfway to the top, and even then the ground was so far below.

She was given a start, however, when Deacon pretended to try and throw her overboard. A yelp escaped her throat when his hands grabbed at her ankles, and she spun to slap his chest. “I’m sorry.” Came his fake sadness, “Let’s hug it out.” Deacon tried to engulf her in his arms, but Turner was quicker, putting the synth detective between the two of them.

The lift shuddered and pulled in toward the office, the walkway extending out once more. The rowdy two collected themselves and stepped out behind Nick. Behind the desk sat a blonde woman, prim and proper, her lips pursed and nose in the air as she typed. The mayor’s assistant, Geneva, pulled her attention from her terminal and stared at the three of them as they approached, Turner leading the way.

“May I help you?” Geneva inquired and pivoted in her chair.

Turner fumbled around in her coat to feel at the bag of caps hidden therein and nervously placed a hand on the desk. “I’d, uh… like to inquire about the house in the square. The one for sale.” Surely Deacon was giving her two thumbs up for such a confident and stellar performance.

“Let us see.” Geneva whipped back to her screen and scanned the bright green letters. She broke for a moment to watch Deacon over the top of her terminal. The sunglasses-clad agent fiddled with some knickknacks on a nearby bookshelf, knocking one over unabashedly. “Good news, Home Plate is still available.” The knickknack remained knocked over when she looked back up.

“Someone had a sense of humour.” Added Nick, “I suppose that makes Tak’s shop the pitcher’s mound.”

The assistant eyed the well-known synth detective, and then back to the young woman in front of her. “Hmm, it seems the mayor finally dropped the price.” Almost on cue, Deacon snorted from his spot at the bookshelf, a small brass bunny in hand. “If only the other house would sell.”

“Other house?” Turner asked. Was there another place they could claim for the Railroad? Was it better suited for their needs?

“Kellogg’s.” Nick clarified at her perplexed stare, “I’ll tell you all about it later. Not sure it’s one you’d be interested in.”

“Fifteen hundred caps will get you the papers and the key. Payment up front, please.”

Turner revealed her bag of caps and deposited them on the desk. A sigh of relief escaped her as it felt as though her coat was suddenly twenty pounds lighter.

It took the assistant nearly ten minutes to count out the caps on her desk. Who in their right mind thought caps were a viable, easy-to-carry currency was beyond Nick. Not that paper money had much value before the war, but it made good insulation at least. “I’ll be back in a minute with the keys. Wait here, please.”

The doors to the mayor’s office opened, and the assistant disappeared behind them down a hall to the left. Turner chanced a look, gazing into the open office with an eye of curiosity.

Inside stood a heavy set man, finely dressed -- the mayor, she presumed, from the way he held himself. He conversed with another man clad in a black trench coat, dark leather and aquiline features. The mysterious man stood tall in front of the mayor, his back straight and neck taut, and about him crept an air of danger. The way he held himself was stiff and robotic, his eyes trained intently on the rather inept-in-comparison mayor.

If Turner didn’t know any better, she’d say he looked like a--

She froze and took a step back. “Deacon.” She whispered. Against the bookshelf, her fellow agent played imaginary drums with two pens. “Deacon, come here.”

Nick noticed Turner’s change in demeanor immediately and inspected the office for himself. The unsavory character caught his eye, and quickly the detective took her by the arm, “What’s got you so spooked, kid?” he inquired almost silently. The last time he’d seen her so distraught had been in front of that boogieman, Riddik. Whatever this guy was, the detective could already tell it wasn’t good.

Deacon rolled up without a sound and followed her line of sight into the office. He joined her in freezing in place, but he was far more collected than she.

Inside the room, the trench coat wearing man averted his gaze from the mayor during a rather boring spiel, his gaze traveling out into the foyer. What greeted him was the three out of place misfits: one meek girl, one generic man, and… how curious.

Turner froze up as the would-be Courser assessed the three of them, and Deacon took her free arm in hand to keep her steady. The mayor, however, brought his attention back to the forefront, and their small ragtag team was ignored. But definitely not forgotten.

Out of the hall, Geneva returned, key and papers in hand. She passed through the threshold and back into the waiting room to find the trio huddled together staring into the office. With a cough to clear her throat, she shut the doors back again and blocked their view of the potential Courser. “Here you are.” The key landed in Turner’s outstretched hand and she shoved it into her pocket with feverish fingers. “Thank you for joining Diamond City society.”

\---

Once back on the lift, Deacon waited until they descended out of sight before he spoke. “That was a Courser.” He announced like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Not good. We gotta tell Dez.”

It was Nick’s turn to pipe up with the question that had been lingering in the back of his processor like a bad glitch, “Courser? Didn’t look much like a horse to me.”

Turner faced him with a face of feigned confidence, but he could easily see through the mask she put forward. “They’re Institute hunters. A Courser goes after runaway synths and brings them back for re-education or termination.” She clarified. Above them, the voices within the office faded into nothing. “They’re bad news.”

“Not after me, I hope.” The synth meant it as a joke, but Turner could tell there was a sense of unease in his tone like he didn’t think so highly of himself. He had mentioned he was Institute “trash” when they’d met, and it seemed like the trend only continued. “But they threw me out for a reason, I suppose. No use for a hunk of junk like me.”

“You’re not junk.” She mumbled under her breath. If Nick noticed, he didn’t say, but his glowing eyes darted to her. “But Deacon’s right. We have to warn everyone else.”

\---

Hancock was found at Takahashi’s noodle stand, almost sulking on his stool. He slid an unopened bottle of Nuka Cola back and forth across the counter, his gloved hands catching the glass with a squeak. At the sound of approaching feet he swiveled on his stool, leaning languidly back against the counter.

Turner noticed he now donned a “new” pair of boots, the old pair on the ground underneath his seat. The new ones didn’t look much different from the old, but they were certainly in better condition. “How’d it go? Mister Mayor treat you well?” Although his drawl was muffled under his gas mask, the condescension in his voice could still be heard.

“We didn’t have the honour of speaking with him. He was busy.” Turner bounced forward and tugged him from his seat, “Let’s go check out the place. Come on.”

The ghoul relented and stood with a groan. She pulled him close, arms curled around him tightly, and to any other onlooker they looked to be caught in an affectionate hug. It couldn’t be further from the truth. “There’s something going on.” Came her words in a hushed tone, “We’ll explain when we get in.”

\---

The door to Home Plate creaked open, and together the three of them looked long into the darkness. The smell of wet clung in the air, stagnant and stuffy. The door remained open as they stepped inside, allowing the wind and what light they could into the empty house.

Odds and ends littered the floor: old crates, chairs, and a mattress or two. “All we need to find now is a body.” Deacon joked, “And it’ll be complete.”

Well, it certainly was a start.

Nick’s eyes stood out in the dim room, taking in what he could of the Railroad’s new headquarters. “Home, sweet home, huh?” he kicked an aluminum can across the cement floor, “Colour me jealous.”

“Shut up.” Turner said with a laugh and knocked the lever on the wall until the lights came to life. Illumination revealed a room of… well, junk. Home Plate had obviously been a warehouse of sorts at one point, and possibly a depository of trash.

Hancock kicked the door shut and threw down his mask and old boots. With a huff he ran his hands down his face until the sensation of tight rubber wore off. “Alright, spill it, what was up there? You guys walk in on him bumping uglies or what?” He popped a squat in an old lounger, only to have a cloud of dust fly up and encapsulate him. Choking coughs escaped his lungs, and he waved away the offensive miasma with his coat sleeve.

Turner dragged a crate out from beneath the stairs and took a seat. Deacon sat beside her, legs extended and feet clicking together. “There was an Institute Courser chatting it up with the mayor.” He blurted and pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “Spells bad news.”

“You know anything about it? Did he talk with them, you know, back then?” Turner leant against her thighs and fidgeted with her fingers nervously. They wouldn’t stay still, and she found her palms began to sweat.

“Nah, must be some shit he started recently.” Hancock paused to gather his thoughts, “You sure it was an Institute guy? Seen plenty of mercs come in and out when I was around.” There was a dangerous gleam in the ghoul’s eye, like the gears were beginning to turn. Something was working through his mind now, and his eyes narrowed to blackened slits. “Don’t mean nothin’, sunshine.”

Something had to be bothering the ghoul, though by the expression that crossed his face it was obvious he didn’t want to share. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna do me some digging.” Deacon added and stood, pulling up his pants for dramatic effect. It just looked uncomfortable, if Turner could be honest.

She looked over to Nick who stood against the wall, unlit cigarette still hanging from his lips, “You’re good at snooping, right, Mister Detective?” What better way to goad someone for assistance than with flattery, Deacon always told her, “Wanna help Deacon out?”

Nick smirked before tipping up the brim of his hat, “How much you paying me? Then we’ll talk.” So that’s how it was going to be. He gave her a wink to show he was joking, but she flared her nostrils nevertheless.

“Fine, then Nick 2.0 will just have to do all the heavy lifting. Same difference.” Turner produced the teddy bear from her hood and shook it about.

“And already you’ve replaced me.” His skeletal hand clutched at his chest, his tie skewed under his grasping digits. “Then I’ll just have to go back to my boring desk job. And here I thought we were friends.”

“When you two are done flirting, I’m gonna go get the others.” Deacon all but interrupted. He mussed Turner’s hair and then throttled the head of the teddy bear. And if she could glare any harder, the sunglass-clad agent would have a hole burnt in his head. And a black eye for good measure.

\---

The news of a potential courser left the Railroad agents paranoid, to say the least, and one by one they filtered slowly into Home Plate to avoid suspicion. Drummer Boy even took it upon himself to enter with Tom via the roof hatch. Anything to speed up the process. Deacon assured Desdemona that their new HQ would be safe, that he would see to the mayor himself if need be.

Whilst the other Railroad agents went about outfitting their new abode, Turner slunk away into the market unseen. Hancock and Nick remained behind involuntarily (as she didn’t bother to tell them she’d scarpered off), and Deacon disappeared to do his “super sneaky snooping” into whatever the mayor was doing with a Courser.

She trotted about the market and up to Percy’s shop, though Myrna now stood under the overhang, _Publick Occurrences_ in hand. Turner hadn’t the luxury of experiencing the synth-fearing woman when she originally came to Diamond City, but there was a first time for everything.

“We don’t serve synths.” Myrna announced blandly as Turner approached, “Synth-free shopping.” That was more blunt than expected.

“Synth-free shopping?” Turner asked, all but perturbed.

“That’s right, we don’t serve synths.” Myrna explained in a huff like what she said must have been the most obvious thing in the city.

“How do you know if someone is a synth, though?” Turner easily fired back, “Like, are we talking Nick Valentine, or…”

Myrna scoffed and placed her newspaper on a nearby shelf, “Not even Valentine.”

Regardless of her opinion on synths, Turner perused the surplus wares under the scrutinizing eye of Myrna, all the while itching for a drink. So many options tempted her on the shelves, and she was hard-pressed to pick just one.

Finally, after about ten minutes, she decided. A bottle of whiskey for her, vodka for Hancock, sippy drink for Deacon, and bourbon for the Courser.

Turner nearly dropped the bottles in her arms when she locked eyes with the ebon clad man situated to the right of Myrna’s shop. Leant against the wall, he stood arms crossed and face lowered to stare out from under his brow. How long had he been there? If she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was just a coincidence, but it was never that simple.

Her mind stuttered for a moment before she continued shopping, pretending all the while the man wasn’t there. Statuesque almost, he didn’t move from his spot, and served as a barrier between her and Home Plate. Oh how she hoped he hadn’t seen them enter. If he did, all he had to do was kick open the door and it would be all over for them.

After several minutes the Courser moved, the leather of his coat groaning as he pushed away from the wall and meandered toward Power Noodles. A blank stare crossed Turner’s face and she could do nothing save but watch him sit down across the way, his back toward her.

“Hey!” Myrna brought Turner’s attention back, and only then did she realize she’d been standing there dumbly with arms full of alcohol. “You getting those or not?”

Turner blinked rapidly and produced a light bag of caps from the bag at her side, most of them found as she scrounged around through the various crates in their new HQ (just before she scurried away). “Yeah, sorry. I got distracted.”

Paying for her spirits, she stuffed the bottles into her bag. If she were wise, she’d invest in a new coat for the coming winter, but that would just have to wait. The whiskey would keep her warm in the meantime, and the danger of a Courser at her back would keep her going.

It came as no shock to her that the Courser was still in Diamond City, but she would be damned if she jeopardized their new headquarters on the first day. Desdemona would have her head if anything else were to happen so soon.

She’d hang Turner out on a fishing line and let Riddik and the Courser fight to the death to see who could take the troublemaker. Maxson would cheer from the sidelines next to a gaggle of synths.

The Brotherhood? At least Turner knew what would become of her. The Institute? They were a wild card in of themselves. If it were to come to that, she’d throw herself into Riddik’s arms willingly.

That would be a sight. She would race into the Paladin’s arms to escape the Courser like some badly written romance serial, “Ooh, Paladin Riddik, save me.” She’d cry and then proceed to be broken in half. And then Deacon would faint dramatically. End scene.

If only it were so easy.

\---

It took nearly half an hour before Nick noted Turner’s absence. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Not on the second floor, not hiding in a closet, and not sleeping under the stairs. And as he opened the rooftop hatch, he was met with nothing but a dog house and a rusted grill.

If anything, he realized the rooftop would serve as a good vantage point for the Railroad. He could even see the top of the agency from there. But still no Turner.

Nick scanned the whole of the city, from the entrance to the Green Monster, his eyes drawn into the city square. There he spotted a familiar crop of dark hair and a teddy bear stuck in a hood just outside Diamond City Surplus. With a laugh, he wondered if maybe the Railroad could teach Myrna a thing or two about synths, but that was like leading a horse to water.

The synth found it funny how Turner skirted her duties in cleaning out Home Plate, though the he hadn’t expected much different. A few sweeps from a broom and she was done and gone into the city. And only to return later with arms full of liquor, no less.

What Nick didn’t expect to see was a man in a black coat similar to the one in the mayor’s office tear after her as she disappeared around a bend, shoving past random denizens before vanishing. Turner might have been walking straight into an ambush without even knowing it, and here he was ogling like some green cop.

Trouble was afoot, and Nick had to decide quickly what to do. He made his way to the edge of the roof and leapt atop the building beside Home Plate, clanking loudly against the metal roofing before he continued on. He circled around the square and up overtop the apex of another home, coming to look down on the alleyway that ran past the agency.

From there, Turner was nowhere to be seen.

Anxiousness grew in his gut and he continued on to see if she had made her way toward the Diamond City Radio trailer or the Green Monster. The metal of the roofs squealed under his weight, and he made sure to take quick steps to the end of the building.

From there, he saw Turner in the central yard. From the way she held herself, he could tell she knew something or someone was on her tail. “Good,” he thought, “now where’s tall, dark, and handsome?”

Processing what he could in a matter of seconds, he watched the Courser appear once more from around the wall of a shack. Fluidly, the hunter strode forward and came to a stop nary ten feet from Turner, his arms drawn behind his back.

The clockwork detective dug into his coat to grab at the handle of his pipe pistol, checking to make sure a bullet sat in the chamber. In his time as a private investigator, he learnt quickly it was better to be safe than sorry when dealing with an unknown, and concerning Turner’s most recent dates with danger he wanted to be more than prepared.

With a hand buried deep in her bag, the bottles clanking within, Turner reached for her gun. Of course the Institute hunter had followed her, what did she expect? What was most worrying was facing the Courser all on her own -- sure, she’d killed two Brotherhood of Steel knights, but she knew their weaknesses. The Institute was a whole different kind of enemy.

Nervously, she eyed the Courser as he began to stalk this way and that, almost as if he wished to circle her. Her eyes followed him as her hand curled around her pistol, and for a moment she felt better, even more so when she looked up for a second to a shadow on the roof. There, like a watcher in the wings, was Nick.

He pressed a finger to his lips for her to remain quiet, and she complied all too easily.

From the confines of a holster on his leg, the Courser pulled forth an Institute issue pistol and aimed it square at Turner. And with a voice like gravel, he spoke. “Tell me, why was there a Gen 2 with you? Some subservient slave you tinkered with, stole from the Institute?”

The Courser placed his finger against the trigger, but Nick was quicker.

One shot rang out and struck against the barrel of the Courser’s gun, sending it flying out of his grasp. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” Nick leapt from the roof and landed with a groan. ‘You’re too old for this.’ He told himself when his knees shook from the impact, but he covered it with a grin.

The Courser turned away from Turner and faced the damaged Gen 2 unafraid. Nick was nothing compared to him. He was superior in almost every sense of the word. Strong, agile, and bones like unbreakable steel, the Courser was perfect in every area the detective was not.

Behind the hunter, Turner clutched at her pistol tightly but did not fire for fear of hitting Nick. She wouldn’t deny her aim needed work, and fortune would only have it that she shot her friend by accident.

Friend… there was a word she hadn’t thought of relating to the synth, but even so it slipped and stuck.

“Speak of them and they shall come.” The Courser replied evenly, his face a mask of stoicism. Locking eyes with the detective, Turner nudged her head left and mouthed the word “move”. Nick took three steps to the right and stopped, pistol hidden behind his back. “Perhaps you can tell me. Have you been reprogrammed?”

“You’re askin’ the wrong guy. Pretty sure the Institute threw me out like yesterday’s newspaper.” Nick watched Turner raise her pistol and take aim, “Then again, I could have just hallucinated the whole thing. Hard to tell without proper updates.” He tapped the side of his head with a bare finger.

A boom filled the air as Turner took the shot, hitting the Courser in the chest. But they didn’t flinch, didn’t reel back, and advanced on the small agent. He sped toward her, sprinting quicker than any human could manage, and grabbed his gun from the ground. But he stumbled as Nick fired, hitting the skin of his neck.

The detective fired again, sending the Courser reeling to the water just past Turner. His laser pistol disappeared into the murky waters, and that only served to annoy him more.

Turner dodged and took a shot of her own, a bullet flying into his thigh.

The Courser blindly shot back at the two, the laser blasts striking the dirt where Turner had stood a second before and burning through the tails of Nick’s coat. Another shot left her gun and struck a clean line across the Courser’s cheek, followed by two more shots.

Out of the fray, Turner scurried across the yard and raised her pistol to fire again. A clunk met her ears as the slide moved forward and stuck in place.

Jammed.

Trying his hardest, Nick loaded two more shots into the Courser, but the Institute hunter still advanced on the young woman undeterred. Out came the teddy bear, hitting the hunter in the face. That made him cross for a second alone, just by the sheer stupidity of it, and he continued. Desperately, Turner spun her gun less than nimbly and lashed out with its butt.

The Courser flinched but did not stop, hand flying out to grasp at her neck with enough force to fell her. Tight like a noose, Turner struggled in his grip and pounded her gun repeatedly against his arm. Slowly suffocating her, she didn’t doubt he could snap her neck in twain.

Unsure of what to do, Nick watched Turner struggle against the Courser’s iron grip, her feet kicking at his shins. He took the chance and fired once, the bullet lodging in the hunter’s chest, and twice, straight at the side of his head. The Courser’s grip loosened, but still he did not release her.

Blackness began to fog her vision, and Turner grew weak from lack of breath. She fell to one knee, her small hands still struggling against the Courser’s wrist. Truly, Deacon wasn’t exaggerating when he said they were the Institute’s greatest and most deadly creations.

A mess of blood that was the Courser’s face stared down at her, his chest and arms riddled with bullet holes and weeping wounds. If the bullets didn’t fell him, then perhaps the blood loss would. Though Turner suspected she would have long since expired before that happened.

Nick ran forward and placed the barrel of his pistol flush with the Courser’s temple, and in that moment they locked eyes. He thought of a witty quip to say, but one look to the nearly unconscious Turner stopped him. A final shot rang out, and the Courser’s grip vanished.

Turner fell to her hands and sucked in a deep breath, the fire in her lungs a pain she’d never felt before. With greedy breaths, she watched the dark vignette disappear from around her and slammed her gun on the ground. The slide moved into place and corrected itself.

If Nick were ever to see a Courser again, it would be too soon. Facing Turner, he bent low on one knee to inspect her, a hand on her back. Already there were ugly bruises forming around her throat, a red mark where each finger laid marring her flesh.

“You alright, kid?” he asked and lifted her chin to inspect the marks further.

Turner sat back on her legs and rubbed at the tender skin, “Yeah, I’m fine. Is he dead?" The detective’s eyes were trained intently on her neck, and he didn’t seem to have heard her, “Nick?”

Something clicked, and he unfroze. His eyes came back to life and he looked directly at her. “Yeah. I think so.” Their attention turned to the lifeless Courser beside them. Diamond City security would be all over them any minute. What would they say to get them out of their newfound situation?

“Hang on.” Turner crawled forward and inspected the Courser for herself, her hands prodding at what was left of the synth hunter’s head.

“Ugh, what’re you doin’, kid?” Nick worried and tried to pull her hand away. She simply swatted the offensive digits and shoved a finger into the Courser’s brain matter. Perhaps the air loss made her loopy. He certainly hoped so.

A cringe crossed his features and he slunk back as she finished her search. In her bloodied fingers was a small vacuum tube-like apparatus, and yet Nick found it hard to believe Turner didn’t suddenly have a screw loose. “It’s a Courser chip.” She explained like It was obvious, and held it out for him to inspect.

He didn’t quite grasp its meaning, “You gotta give me more than that, kid. I’m a detective, but even I need just a little more to work with.”

Struggling to her feet, Turner buried the chip away in her bag at the sound of approaching security. Several guards rounded into the yard, guns drawn and readied. Immediately they spotted the body at the water’s edge, and looked back and forth from it to Turner. “What’s going on? Heard gunshots from--” one of them saw Nick at the girl’s side, “Oh, Valentine. You in on this?”

A short laugh escaped him, “I wouldn’t say I was in on it, but I helped take care of it.” He didn’t know what else to add. An excuse had to come to him quick, and he was coming up empty.

“He was a slaver.” Turner quickly explained. “He was trying to scope out the city.” One of the security guards walked forward to look for himself. “Tried to take me with him.” She presented the bruises on her neck for the guard to see. Lying to get out of the situation wasn’t one of her proud points, but the chip she now hid away was more than enough evidence for the Railroad.

“Slavers? Here?” The guard squawked, eyes wide. “Last I heard, they were in the Capital!” The other guards congregated around what was left of the Courser’s body. “You guys sure did a number on him.”

“Yeah, well.” Accidentally, Turner rubbed at her neck just a bit too hard and hissed.

Nick leant down and placed a hand on her arm gently, whispering in her ear. “Go on back. I’ll finish things here.” He gently nudged her along, “I’ll explain, gentlemen. I want my friend here to get looked at.”

They understood and allowed Turner to continue on her way unquestioned. Scooping up her teddy from the ground, she brushed away a layer of dirt that collected on it in the scuffle.

But before she disappeared, she looked back over her shoulder and locked eyes with Nick. And without saying it, he knew she was thanking him.

\---

Up Next:

Chapter 10: Courser Chip Conundrum!

What will the Railroad do now they’ve got a Courser chip? What nefarious plans does Paladin Riddik have up their sleeve to strike back at Turner and crew? What happens when Maxson isn’t playing nice anymore? All this and more next time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, I wanted to thank all of you for your support! You guys are awesome! Please don't be afraid to leave comments or anything -- they really help me out!


	11. Courser Chip Conundrum!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing! Thank you for all your support for this story, and all the lovely fanart! UwU
> 
> Remember, I'm the only one proofreading this, so if you spot any spelling or grammar mistakes, please tell me!
> 
> And comments really help me out! I love getting them! @w@

 

Wonderful fanart by the beautiful Clauseart! [Check them out on Tumblr!](http://clausesart.tumblr.com/post/142253871645/im-sick-with-a-cold-and-also-in-fanfiction-hell)

 

\---

 

The door into Home Plate burst open and in ran Turner, Courser chip in hand. Despite the blood on her fingers, dried at this point to a deep brown, she scurried to Deacon and presented the vacuum tube with a crooked smile. He shifted his glasses and took in the apparatus with an unreadable face, but deep in his mind he knew exactly what she held.

“Is that what I think it is?” Tinker Tom asked excitedly from Deacon’s back, the crate he carried falling to the floor and onto Glory’s foot. “Holy crap! It is!” A hop escaped him and he gingerly took the chip from Turner’s dirtied hands. He inspected it with a twinkle in his eye. “Where’d you get it? How?”

Suddenly nervous, Turner rubbed at her bruised neck, the marks from the Courser’s hands dark and ugly. “Well, he didn’t just hand it to me.” She thought about the phrase “so I just asked nicely”, but bit the comment back when Hancock spotted her.

“No kidding.” The Ghoul added once he caught the marks around her throat. “Lemme see that. Come here.” His hands flew to hold her in place as she dismissively backed away, but to no avail.

“I’m fine, Hancock, stop worrying. It’s not a big deal.” Turner squealed when he tilted her head to the side, the stretch of her skin more painful than she thought. “Seriously, it’s fine.” His eyes narrowed and he ran his thumb down the curve of her neck. “Nick and I took care of the Courser. He’s dead.”

Turner’s admission helped only somewhat, and Hancock hesitantly stopped his worried ministrations with a deep sigh. “Where’s the Dick anyway? Scavenging parts or what?”

“Dealing with city security. They’ll take his word over mine, I guess.” Kicking her foot across the floor, Turner shoved her hands deep in the pouch on the front of her coat and popped her lips.

And as the tension between the two of them grew to a head, it was only fitting they get interrupted. “We gotta get the code off this baby!” Tinker Tom interjected. “Hey, Dez!”

From out of the back of the HQ, the Railroad leader appeared, the new commotion surrounding Turner drawing her away from their renovation. “Dez, check this out! Look what Turner got us.” Tom swiveled to face the woman, the Courser chip lolling about in his hands. “We can turn the Institute on its head -- take the Boogieman and the Brotherhood out!”

Desdemona met Turner’s stare with one of her own. She neither smiled nor frowned at the small girl with hideous bruises on her neck, but there was an air about her that was at least pleased. Maybe the look Hancock was giving her helped matters, or kept her mouth shut. Last thing they needed was the ghoul going off on her again.

Pleased with what Turner had wrought, Tom followed Desdemona and Deacon toward the back where a simple terminal was set up, the sunglass-clad agent giving her a congratulatory thumbs-up.

Turner went to follow behind them, but a hand on her wrist stopped her short. Hancock tugged her back toward him with a deep frown, his eyes stuck to the marks on her throat. “We gotta talk, Sunshine.” Her eyes darted from his and down to the floor sheepishly, “Please.”

\---

Paladin Riddik stood about the landing deck of the Prydwen, the cold night wind seeping through the cracks of their freshly polished armour. Sadly, the talk hadn’t gone over well with the Brotherhood Elder. A loss of one of their men was to be expected, but not only had the Paladin lost one of their knights, but also the lead on the Railroad’s location. Despite Riddik’s initial reaction to Four’s death, the treatment of their brother was far more important than the Railroad rats.

Riddik held no love for Four, to be sure. Four had been foolhardy and hot headed, too caught up in trying to impress the Paladin that he was all too willing to face Turner without thinking she could, in some way, fight back. Riddik hadn’t cared for the acts to gain favoritism, and yet…

They paced the length of the Prydwen’s flightdeck, the Boston night filled with far off explosions and tumultuous winds. Nothing served to calm their mind better than the ambience of the Commonwealth. Their personal quarters alongside Paladin Danse were far too constricted and intimate, and Riddik wanted to smash something more than once when in the man’s presence.

Last thing Riddik wanted was a heart to heart with Danse.

Luckily, the other Paladin was to be deployed soon, back with the ground units. Far away from Riddik, and good riddance.

Riddik, however, would be off tomorrow with the remainder of their squad, back on Ridley Turner’s trail. There were only so many places the Railroad could run, only so many places they could hide. They peered off to the brightest light in the Commonwealth, Diamond City, then to the illuminated obelisk that was Bunker Hill. The wreckage of the USS Constitution came next, the waterside amphitheater, and then the Minutemen fort, the Castle, on the coastline.

So many places. So many hives. The slum of Goodneighbor came to mind.

But for now, Bunker Hill interested them most. And regardless of whether Turner was there, Riddik would raze it to the ground and take from her everything, piece by piece.

\---

Up on the landing of the second floor, Turner and Hancock sat at each other’s side. Seemingly defeated or perhaps even exhausted, the ghoul slid the hat from his head and placed it in his lap. He hadn’t said a word since he pulled her away from Tom and his experiment with the chip, and the quiet was almost unsettling.

Turner thought he looked tired then, his face fallen and eyes downcast, his hand curled around hers. The two of them sat in silence for a time, until the tension in the air became too much to bear.

“Listen,” Hancock started and lifted her bloodied hand to inspect it, “Shit like this, I just…” Her hand was small in his, pale and smooth. Sure, there was a callus here or there, but with his mottled skin against hers he couldn’t help but note all the differences from one to the other.

She watched him struggle for words. Usually they came to him easily with all his animal magnetism and charisma. But now?

“It’s fine. Really.” Turner tried again to persuade him.

Hancock only raised his free hand and shook his head weakly, “I believe ya, Sunshine. It’s just when you go off on your own, I’m scared shitless something might happen to ya.” She noticed he wouldn’t make eye contact with her, “You know, you say ‘we’re through’, and then vanish for a month. You know, after a while I sat there and I thought, ‘fuck, what if I never see her again?’”

“I took care of it.” Her excuse fell flat, but Turner struggled to find anything else to say in her defense.

Finally, those onyx eyes moved to catch hers, and she swore she saw her reflection in them. “I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself, I’m not.” He ran a hand across his bare head, “The Commonwealth’s one giant shithole, and I’m just afraid one day you ain’t gonna come back.”

Hancock busied his free hand with his hat, shuffling it across the floor from one foot to the other. And upon a new length of silence, Turner shimmied forward and placed her head on his shoulder, pulling his arm up and around to lie across her back. Fingers dug into the fabric of her coat as though she’d disappear, and the warmth of the ghoul’s cheek against the top of her head was comforting.

They sat that way for a while, silent and wordless, all too content with one another’s presence. Any longer and they might have just fallen asleep.

“Look at you two.”

Turner pulled back from Hancock’s hold, banging her head against the metal shack wall with a start. At the stairs leading down to the first floor stood Nick, hat in hand and smirk on his lips. Only his upper half was visible, his arms tucked under his chin. Turner’s face turned a bright red, her feathers rustled.

Hancock had a Cheshire grin, hat flipping back onto his head. At his side, the girl floundered, her shoulders up and around her ears, her lips pursed. “Our little friend here had a run-in. Thought maybe I’d find her taking her frustration out on some poor ghoul.” Nick joked with the wave of his hat to the girl in question.

Turner clambered up onto her feet with a face of red, and disappeared up the stairs like a bolt of lightning. And with a slip on the rungs of the ladder she vanished through the roof hatch. Nick laughed at the absurdity of it -- he’d have to remember the girl was a shy one when caught being lovey-dovey. Hell, when she was caught being anything but the hardheaded girl with a napoleon complex.

“Skittish as a ragdoe, ain’t she?” he commented when the hatch slammed shut behind her.

Hancock laughed and clicked his tongue, “More like a deathclaw in a nursery, but sure.”

Nick finished his ascent up the stairs and took a seat on the top step, pulling the tattered ends of his slacks up. “She doin’ alright? You see the number that Courser did on her?”

“Yeah, she’s fine, or so she says. Thanks for looking out for her.” The ghoul intertwined his fingers, and out came several loud cracks. “Actually, I wanna ask you a favour.”

The synth pulled a cigarette from his pocket and held it on his lips. Only then did he remember he was down a lighter and almost deposited the cigarette back in its pack. Instead, Hancock threw him his lighter in exchange for one out of the pack.

Finally, lit cigarette in hand, Nick relaxed. “What do you need?”

“I want you to keep an eye on Turner. I know she can handle herself, but still.” The ghoul took a particularly long drag. Nick wondered if it was to calm his nerves in some way, but Hancock didn’t let on.

A chortle escaped the detective. The kid would be ecstatic with the synth following her every move: through the city, across town, at the noodle shop -- the idea that if Turner got scared of the dark, he would be there joking he made a good night-light.

“I suppose I can keep our little deathclaw out of trouble.” Smoke escaped him through a grin, “Can’t say she’ll be too happy about it.”

\---

Up on the rooftop, Turner sat on the edge of the doghouse, an unopened bottle of whiskey in hand. She’d forgotten to give Hancock his vodka, but they could share it whenever they got some alone time. And as she sat there in her lonesome, she kicked herself mentally.

What had gotten hold of her? It wasn’t abnormal or out of the ordinary for Hancock and her to be affectionate. Sure, it had been a while, but something about Nick seeing made her… she couldn’t think of the right word. Nervous? Embarrassed? No, it wasn’t any of those.

Shy?

With a loud “pffflllbbt” from her lips, Turner kicked her feet against the shingles of the dog house. “Stupid trench coat wearing-- ” her thoughts stopped short.

Digging into her bag, she pulled out the gifted teddy. Her feet skidded on the rough roof as she slid off it and onto Home Plate’s metal deck, swinging the teddy back and forth by the arm. Unopened whiskey in one hand and teddy in the other, the urge to throw the stuffed animal was strong.

She stopped herself, however. The disproportionate teddy bear was innocent, cute, banged up, and maybe a little dirty, and she found she could hardly throw it in a fit of pent up embarrassment. Instead, she plopped down heavily on her bottom and swung her feet back and forth.

Turner would go back inside in a couple of minutes when the ache left her cheeks. Until then, she was perfectly content to lay back, teddy in hand, and watch the clouds roll by.

\---

What must have been an hour or so later, the rooftop hatch opened with a loud, un-oiled creak into the night. Bright, golden eyes peered over the lip to scan Home Plate’s roof. Surely, Turner had enough time to cool off with whatever had gotten her so worked up.

Nick climbed up onto the roof under the cover of the metal trailer and made his way into the open. And there he spied, at the edge of the rooftop, Turner laid on her back, unmoving. As he approached, he worried for a moment, and it wasn’t until he was near that he spotted a toppled bottle of whiskey. Though it surprised him to see it unopened, he smiled at the plush bear tucked under her chin -- she had just fallen asleep.

He shook his head at the sight. The girl could sleep anywhere, and he didn’t doubt for a second she would have stayed out there the rest of the night. “Come on, sleeping beauty.” A nudge came to her side, but all it earned the synth was a sleepy groan and a turn away from him. “You catch a cold out here, guess who gets to be your bedside nurse?” He nudged her once again in the side, “And it ain’t gonna be Hancock.”

Turner opened her eyes lazily with a whine, and scowled weakly at the synth. “Deacon? He has the costume for it.” She rolled away from Nick stubbornly before sitting up on her knees.

“Wishful thinking, but no dice.” Without his help, she made it onto her feet and tucked both the bear and whiskey into her bag before heading back to the door inside, Nick in tow.

She entered first and waited with a tapping foot for the detective to follow in, his joints creaking noisily. “Should get you some oil.” She started tiredly, still half asleep. “You sound like PAM when she gets caught in the rain.” Nick landed finally with a lopsided grin at her comment, “Maybe you’ll freeze up and we can use you as a roof ornament. Put some wind thingies on you so we can tell how bad the weather’s going.”

“Maybe we could put you outside as a bug repellant.” He retorted with a smarmy shake of his head, “You could knock the flies off a gut wagon.” It felt good to know the kid had gotten out of her self-inflicted rut. Nick found he missed the back and forth insults between the two of them, if even for such a short time.

“Pals of yours got something good off that chip. Shoulda heard them, well, Tom, hollering about some code. You’d think he’d won the lottery.”

The allusion to the Courser chip made Turner perk up instantly, “What’d they find? Like, a recall code, or what?” she jumped from the last step of the stairs and nearly tripped, narrowly catching herself before she fell on her face.

“It’s all gibberish to me, kid.” He lied. In actuality, Nick was rather proficient with computers and codes, but he’d keep that little gem under wraps for now. “Who knows,” he pondered, “Might just come back to bite her.”

As they approached the group of Railroad agents crowded around Tinker Tom and his terminal, there was a spark of electricity in the air, a type of excitement that jumped from one person to the next. Tom raised his head and caught Turner and Nick, a half disassembled Courser chip in hand.

“We got the Institute’s code!” he exclaimed and pulled Turner into the fold of agents, “Now all we gotta do is figure out a way to use it.”

Nick let himself through the throng to join them, “So, you’ve got a way into the Institute, but at the same time you don’t.” His eyes quickly traveled from the terminal’s monitor and then to Turner. “Back when I was taking on an investigation for… let’s say the Dweller that pulled me out of Vault 114, we ran across some info that might just help.” Turner watched him with baited breath, “That house I told you about earlier, Kellogg’s. Friend of mine found how the Institute traveled back and forth.”

“Teleportation?” Turner finished, and Nick’s face fell into a meek smile.

“And here I thought you might need my help. You beat me to it.” The synth leant heavily on the desk with one hand, hip pivoted, “But we learnt of a man who might know how to build just a thing. Hardly believed it myself.”

“You know how we can get a teleporter?” Turner asked incredulously. Every eye in the room was trained on the clockwork detective, waiting with baited breath for an answer. “And please don’t say the Brotherhood.” Her sarcasm was meant to be lighthearted, but she found as it left her lips she let slip some of her nervousness.

“Sorry to break it to ya, kid, but last time I heard anything about a teleporter or schematics, my friend was headed into the Glowing Sea.”

Turner’s eyes went wide and everyone in the room seemed to cringe. The Glowing Sea was no joke, Radiation, mutated animals, violent radioactive storms, and so much more deadly things would await them if they dared step foot into the blasted badlands.

“Well, how ‘bout we just say there’s a hugging robot at the end of it?” Deacon rustled Turner’s hair, “Little Ridley’ll get there all on her own.”

Turner plucked the Courser chip from Tom’s hand and spun it around in her palm, the remains of the vacuum tube rattling around. “What other option do we have?”

“Actually,” Nick gently took the chip from her hand and held it between two metal digits, “The dweller had a deal with the Minutemen of all people. Last I heard, they’d set up shop in the fort on the coast.” It suddenly felt strange to hold the apparatus, like it was almost taboo, and he placed it back in Turner’s hand, his fingers lingering unconsciously.

“The Castle?” Turner finished and caught his stare, “What do we do if they don’t know where your friend went?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess. I’m more of an ‘in the moment’ kind of guy.” Nick pulled his hand away when he realized he hadn’t taken it from Turner’s, “But for now, you’ve got a heading at least.”

“So the Castle it is!” Deacon pulled Turner up under his arm and held her in a loose headlock, “Road Trip: Part Two. Turner, me, Captain Ghoul, and Robot Cop at it again.”

“What about the Brotherhood?” Turner posed a quite valid question, “I know the Institute needs to be taken care of, but what about Paladin Riddik? What if they find out where we are again while we’re gone?” she sighed and tried to wiggle out of Deacon’s hold, but the agent wouldn’t relent.

“We’ll formulate a plan while you travel to the Castle.” Came Desdemona’s explanation as she skimmed through the information on the terminal. “One thing at a time. Take care of the teleporter, go to the Glowing Sea if you must, and then report back.”

It was almost as though Desdemona didn’t wish for their return, Turner thought, and it came as no shock to her. Deacon would be a loss, but the other three? A traitor, a ghoul, and a synth?

C’est la vie.

\---

Later, Turner lay out on her sleeping bag and held her teddy at arm’s length, whisking it this way and that before slamming its head into the floor. Hancock was already asleep, passed out on his stomach at her side, his coat folded up like a makeshift pillow under his cheek. Nick sat on the stairs leading to the roof ladder and fiddled with a small notebook, a worn pen betwixt his teeth.

“The Glowing Sea is a death wish.” She mumbled and dropped the bear to the floor where it stayed, “Unless I turn out to be a synth or get another suit of power armour, there’s no way I’m going in there.”

“Ya mean you don’t want a nice tan?” Nick glanced up from his notepad and gave her an amused look, “You’ll be positively glowing.” He scribbled something down and flipped a page. “I’ll get you ‘baby’s first radsuit’.”

A chuckle left his throat, but a moment later he found his hat was swiped from his head. Turner plopped back down on her bedroll, worn fedora crooked on her crown, her freckled cheeks curved in a snarky grin. The hat was too large for her as it slipped down on one side, but that hadn’t stopped her.

“All you needed now is the coat, and maybe I can take a vacation. I’m thinking DC.” Nick continued to write like the loss of his hat hadn’t made him feel somewhat naked. Turner fixed the hat so it laid right again, and fell back onto her sleeping bag. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna sleep with that thing on.”

And as fate would have it, an hour later, Nick all too quietly slid his hat from under Turner and put it back where it belonged. He gave her a gentle pat on the head before going right back to his writing. There were only so many hours in a day even for him.

\---

Early the next morning, Nick and Hancock waited at the gates of Diamond City. Just down the incline, Turner trotted along donned in a new winter coat. It was a faded olive green and far too large for her, making it down to right around her knees. The collar, however, was a tan polyester, and it certainly looked warm enough. There was no way she was getting cold that winter.

Together they walked through the exit hall, Turner stuck between the two of them, and the wind swept through like a tunnel as if to put her coat to the test. She barely felt a thing. It was perfect.

Outside the protective walls of the city and into the ruins of Boston they headed, and stood outside the gates was Deacon, ready and waiting. And he had thought to bundle up as well, a scarf tucked deep into the collar of a leather jacket he’d scrounged from some poor unsuspecting civilian -- unless he had a secret stashes of costumes hidden all throughout the Commonwealth.

Regardless, their misfit band was now complete, and with their sights set to the east they began.

It must have been an hour or so since they’d left the confines of the city when they found themselves walking along the open bay, the ocean wind salty and brisk. Hancock strutted proudly now that he was out of his disguise, relaxed with a red inhaler in hand as the ruined asphalt cracked under his feet. Out into the expanse of the ocean Nick peered, watching the mutated seagulls drift along on the winds. Turner fiddled with one of the spent jet cartridges she’d taken from the ghoul, trying her best to busy her hands.

“Smile for the cameras, guys.” Deacon said in what could be considered sing-song, and pushed his glasses far up onto the bridge of his nose. He threw a rock up at one of the approaching gulls, sending it off course.

“Knock it off.” Turner picked up a seashell and inspected it, its underbelly glossy and iridescent. She stuffed it and then another shell or two into her coat pocket before she continued. “Next you’ll be saying the weird pink birds in the grass are cameras, too.”

“That’s because they are. Speak of the devil.” Deacon ran over into a dried lawn of high brown grass, picking up a pink lawn bird. Next, he chucked it point first over a ruined picket fence, “Three pointer!” It dug into a sand dune before falling onto its side, “And the crowd goes wild!”

Nick might have been the only one to remotely get his joke, but his eyes never left the airborne gulls, “Camera’s, huh? Who’s then?” A rather pretty shell crunched under his shoe, cracking loudly. “Institute’s?”

“Deacon thinks birds are Institute spies.” Turner clarified, “Don’t get him started on cats.”

“That’s because they are.” A hand caught over Turner’s mouth, and Deacon awkwardly walked with her in front of him. “Don’t talk too loud or they’ll hear you. Another Courser might show up, and whoop!” he lifted her from the ground, her legs kicking, “No more little Ridley.”

Turner rubbed at her sore neck when her feet met the ground again, the bruises now a gross green-brown. It hurt when she turned her head, and waking up that morning had been less than pleasant. She had noted, as well, that she woke up without Nick’s hat -- meaning the synth had stolen it back again after she’d fallen asleep.

“The kid can take care of them. She’s done it once before.” Nick was quick to defend, but Turner knew she wasn’t the one to down the Institute Courser all on her own. The synth detective was the one to land the final hit when she mostly incapacitated. If anyone could take care of a Courser, it would be him.

Turner broke away from the group and slid down a short slope onto the beach, the sand piling up at her heels. Bizarrely and without context, she took the seashell from her pocket and placed it atop her head. Hancock gave a snort at the unexpected display, but said nothing. If anything, the way the sun hurt his eyes he probably thought it was a trick of his mind.

“Hey, Deacon. I’m queen of the beach. Queen Beach.” She announced proudly, but had to pick up the shell again when it fell from her hair.

Deacon came to a sudden stop and then slid down the slope to join her. A shell soon found its way atop his head to match Turner’s, “Well, then I’m king.” He sat on a rotten wood lounger, not reacting at all when the wood gave way under the seat of his pants.

“Ew, no.” Turner knocked the shell from her head in a flurry of hands. “You’re the court jester.”

The shell slipped off Deacon’s head and into his lap. If ever such a picture could be taken, a man stuck in a broken beach chair, his hind end in the wet sand, and shell on his crotch would win first place in any competition. And Deacon himself would be every other contestant.

Back on the road, Nick and Hancock continued on as the two below began to kick wet sand at one another. “Never a dull moment with those two around.” The synth dodged an upturned manhole cover and gave a whistle back at the two stragglers.

Turner and Deacon appeared back on the road ahead of them, the former of the two throwing a clod of sand at the escaping agent. Deacon made a weird hop to dodge the sandy projectile and skipped back to join the detective and ghoul. On the other hand, Turner waited for them to get nearer before continuing in a light walk.

“How far are we from the Castle?” she asked as the brushed off the fine granules from her coat.

“A couple of hours. Hopefully they’ve got something for us, or we’re out of leads.” Nick wiped away a stray leaf that clung to the back of Turner’s coat, but she didn’t notice.

“I’ve never dealt with the Minutemen before. Brotherhood wasn’t too keen on dealing with locals, even when Lyons was around.”

“You don’t talk too much about them, do you?” Nick tapped her arm with the back of his hand.

A shrug of her shoulders was her first reply, “Remember the first day we traveled together?” she asked cryptically.

“I suppose. You  talkin’ about the ‘no quid pro quo’ thing?”

“Yep.” Turner blew a raspberry with him, and that was that.

Of course, he couldn’t blame her. There were plenty of things Nick didn’t like to talk about. Eddie Winter, “his” memories, the settlement that helped him when he first climbed out of the trash. And definitely not… her. Sure, he had plenty of things about his past he didn’t care to discuss, much less think of in front of others.

He let the questions drop for the time being. One day, though, he hoped maybe it wouldn’t be too much to talk about a few things, if only cathartically.

\---

About three hours later, a curving, sandy trail lay under their feet. The wind blew detritus and flotsam about along the waterside and sand dunes, and more than once Turner tightened her hood to keep the wind away from her ears.

Not far down the path lay an old fort akin to the Capital Wasteland’s Citadel: high walls of stone, the clanking of turrets, and the faint hum of an aged intercom system. The “Castle” lived through the elements nuclear destruction had wrought far better than most of Boston and the surrounding area. And even then it withstood the ocean winds and storms.

Nick was right in a sense when he said “they don’t make ‘em like they used to”.

Asbestos and rebar only lasted but so long. But stone?

Turner fiddled with the loose ends of her coat sleeves nervously, putting her hands in the opposing sleeves to keep the wind away from her wrists. She hoped deep down the Minutemen had news or information, or… something! Anything! Even if it was just a heading as to where this dweller or “sole survivor” went.

A salty spray spat up from the water and washed across her face, and with a less than dainty “blegh” Turner wiped it away. The water had a strange smell to it. Not offensive, but not exactly something she considered perfume quality.

“All this salt can’t be good for my circuits.” Nick pulled his collar up high around his chin, hiding the exposed wires in his neck and metal of his jaw. “If I freeze up, take my axe and go find some oil. I’ll be patient.” The reference was lost on her as she wiped her face dry, and Nick shook his head at her confusion.

The Wizard of Oz might have been a good joke if any of them were old enough to understand it. All their group needed was a Toto, and their ensemble would be complete, though there was hardly a cowardly lion amongst them.

The sound of decaying music filled the air on their approach, all violins and other beautiful chords. Turner ran a hand across the time-smoothed stone of the arched entranceway, the rock cold under her hand, and spied into the interior of the Castle.

“I bet this place has rockin’ parties.” Deacon joked, “Get it? Rockin’?” He waited, but no one laughed. Turner, if anything, hated the pun. “Soirees, then.”

The inside of the Castle wasn’t much different than its exterior. It was wide and open with one large radio tower planted into the center of the grounds, a mass of wires going from one point to the next across the whole of the place. A small crop share sat to their right, several people bent low to harvest what they could from the soil.

A man sat up from his work at the sight of newcomers to the Minutemen base, his pants and coat sullied with fresh dirt, his neatly pinned hat the only thing left unmarred about him.

“Valentine, is that you?” The man walked up and firmly took the synth’s hand in his. “How long has it been?”

“Too long.” Nick swung his hand out to introduce, if Turner could be perfectly honest, the rather fashionably dressed man. It wasn’t often one saw embroidered cloth, much less a vest and a coat to match. “This here’s Preston Garvey. General of the Minutemen.”

It must have been an inside joke between the two of them, because Preston immediately dismissed the title, his finger flicking the tip of his nose, “No, I’m not the General. Thank you, though.” He gave pause for a moment, “Actually, for the time being I’ll take it.”

That was new, the detective noted. As far as he had been concerned, Preston wasn’t fond of the idea of being General of the Minutemen. “For the time being?” Nick quoted with his fingers. “Something wrong?”

Preston’s face fell and his brow furrowed. “Yes. I hope things will take a turn for the better soon.” He suddenly appeared distraught, and slipped the hat from his head with anxious fingers.

“Well, to be honest, the General.” There was trepidation in his voice. “They went to the Glowing Sea, and when they returned…”

The four of them stood silently and waited for Preston to finish, but with so many eyes on him it must have been hard to speak.

“The General… they’re dying.”

\---

Up Next!

What happens when the General of the Minutemen is dying? What could they have found in the Glowing Sea that must be kept secret? And what will become of Bunker Hill as Riddik begins an onslaught against the Commonwealth? And are Turner and Nick finally going to have a heart to heart?

Stay tuned for Chapter 11: Riddik’s Reclamation!

\---


	12. Riddik's Reclamation!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just started my new semester up! I've got another Maya class this time, but I'm still going to be posting this once a week! Don't you worry! Also, I wanna thank you guys for all the lovely kudos and art UwU You're the greatest~

\---

Preston’s words hadn’t meant much to Turner, but the look that crossed Nick’s face at the revelation started an ache in her chest. She chocked it up to something akin to heartburn and pushed the tension from her ribs with a deep breath. Now was hardly the time.

“Dying?” Nick asked, his eyes not staying in one place for long. The detective seemed genuinely upset -- perhaps the potential loss of his friend meant more than he let on. “Where are they?”

Preston pointed to one of the many archways and waved for them to follow. “They’re in the back. We’ve tried all sorts of treatments, but nothing’s working.” The air was all the more algid inside the Castle’s walls, the corridors lit by string lights hung in every which direction. “It’s radiation poisoning, to be sure, but not even rad-away has any effect.”

Hancock shook his coat by the lapels like the idea made him uncomfortable. He knew better than anyone what it was like to feel the burn of radiation. But unlike many wastelanders, the burn was more of a balm. He might actually grow back that toe he was missing one day. “They look like they’re turnin’ ghoul? Ain’t no cure for that.”

Weakly, Preston shook his head and led them down a darkened section of the hall, coming to a stop in front of two old wooden doors. “Nothing like that. We’re at a loss.” With that, he knocked lightly on the door, his ear pressed to the wood, “General? You have company.”

There was silence beyond the door for a moment, perhaps a moment too long as a split-second look of terror took hold of the Minuteman’s face. Someone past the door must have spoken, however, for Preston relaxed and opened the door tortuously slow.

First to enter, Nick didn’t waste time, Turner at his heel. Situated against the wall was a bed draped in numerous blankets, a dim lantern lit on a nightstand at its head. Under the mass of covers laid a sickly General, their eyes sunken and cheeks drawn. Their skin had a deathly pallor, off and pale, and their gaze traveled with strain to the group now in the room.

Turner wasn’t naïve to the effects of radiation poisoning -- even she had the misfortune of overexposure and sickness -- but never to such an extent. Something else must have happened to the General in the Glowing Sea, or perhaps they had an illness that was only exaggerated by their being there. It was hard to say, and she doubted they would ever really know.

Nick removed his hat respectfully and greeted them with a gentle smile, one the General easily returned. “How’re you doin’?” he asked as he approached.

The General raised a hand slowly and grasped at the detective’s coat sleeve, “Been better. Preston’s been a mother hen.” The Minuteman coughed at the comment and gave an amused hum, “Even though he knows he doesn’t have to be.”

From behind Nick, Turner shuffled from one foot to the other. She felt bad for wanting to leave the room at that moment, and even more so at the idea of asking the ailing and most-likely dying General about some teleporter schematics. Yes, the Railroad desperately needed them, and yet she hadn’t the heart to speak up.

Without a word, she took a step from the room and sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Such situations made her feel ill, made her feel like she had to escape. The death of Elder Lyons came to the forefront of her mind, a scene too familiar to the one she was in now. Back inside the room, the synth continued on with the General as she took a seat outside against the wall.

Deacon hung back from the doorway and without a word raised a thumbs-up in question. He received a ho-hum waggle of Turner’s hand before it fell back against her knee. If need be, he could handle the difficult question concerning the teleporter.

Those glasses of his were one hell of a mask, and Turner only wished she could distance herself from situations in such a way.

Hancock was next to come swaggering out to join her, shaking a jet inhaler around in his hand. With one long drag, he held it, and presented the inhaler to her. That wasn’t exactly the solution to her anxiety that she was looking for, but damn if the offer wasn’t all too tempting.

With a shake of her head, Turner declined and simply stood to pull her coat tight around her. The ghoul exhaled and listened to the clink-clunk of the inhaler as he shook it up and down, “One time ain’t gonna hurt ya, Sunshine.” He wasn’t pressuring her, not at all, just letting her know the option was there. As was he if she needed him.

Radiation poisoning was a terrifying prospect. Nausea, fatigue, hair loss, hallucinations, and even eventual death (all too real in this case) were only some of the many ailments, and Turner didn’t wish the fate on anyone. Well, maybe Riddik, but even that was difficult. Come to think of it, she wasn’t even sure Riddik was human enough to be affected. Maybe they were actually a deathclaw that had been shoved into power armour, and that’s why they were so angry all of the time.

Regardless, Turner sat outside for a time and didn’t think, didn’t watch Hancock walk back into the room where she could hear Nick talking so-so quietly with his friend. She didn’t think of much in the time she had alone, and didn’t even realize it when the synth stepped out from the room.

He adjusted his coat and replaced his hat like the ordeal within tired him, loosening the collar of his shirt by one button. “You alright?” Came the question and nothing else. No “why did you walk out?” or “Somethin’ the matter?”. Just “You alright?” and nothing more.

Turner bent low and took the time to tighten the laces of her shoes, double knotting it so it wouldn’t come loose again. It didn’t take a detective to know she was avoiding looking at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Was her flaccid response, “I don’t like being around stuff like that.” With her back straight again, she shimmied in her coat.

“Can’t say I blame ya. Hell of a way to go.” An uncomfortable silence sat in the air, a pregnant pause when neither of them could speak. “Can’t imagine what it’s like. I hear the ol’ Geiger counter ticking, but…” Nick sighed, “They said the teleporter schematics are here. Got them from some Virgil fellow in the Glowing Sea -- promised they’d get his research from the Institute if they were successful. Suppose that’s not gonna happen now.”

“What’re Deacon and Hancock doing?”

“Talking things out. Seeing how we can return the favour.” Turner swore his eyes were dimmer now after talking with the General, or maybe she had just finally gotten used to them, “Wanted to see how you were doin’.”

“I think I’m gonna walk around for a bit. Maybe see what this place looks like from up top.” She didn’t bother to mention it was to take her mind off things, though Nick understood nevertheless. Shaking her bag, the bottles of alcohol clinked together, buffered by the cushion that was the teddy bear. “Maybe try to relax a bit. Hancock tried giving me jet, but that shit smells like fertilizer.”

The synth followed in suit behind her down the hall, hands tucked deep into his pockets, “That’s because it is. Ever seen someone make the stuff?” Immediately her mouth opened to say “Hancock” but he stopped her short, “Don’t answer that.”

Finally, Nick got Turner to illicit a laugh as the winds met them at a staircase, blowing down into the stone alcove with concentrated ferocity. It let up as she walked up onto the Castle’s parapets, surprised to see grass growing atop the fort’s walls.

The place must have been abandoned for a while before the Minutemen took over again. The auxiliary weapons were in disrepair, the water pump down below was inactive, and the whole wall across the way was in crumbles. Yes, the Castle had seen better days, and better centuries.

Still, there was an inescapable charm to the place.

Nick held tight to his hat as it threatened to blow from his head, his bare, metal digits digging into the stitched together fedora. From the parapets, the Castle felt larger, the courtyard mostly unfurnished save the radio tower and plot of crops. Instead, Turner gazed out at the sea, standing on the very edge of the wall to look down.

“Careful, kid.” Nick warned, his hand already in place to yank her away should a rather nasty wind sweep her off her feet. “You fall in, I’m not gonna be much help.”

“Can’t swim, or are you afraid you’ll get water in your circuits -- Short you out?” Turner kicked a piece of loose brick and watched it fall into the crashing waves below.

“It’s hard to swim when all you wanna do is sink. It might come as a surprise to you, but metal isn’t very buoyant.” Nick attempted to light a cigarette, and at every chance the wind only extinguished the flame from his borrowed lighter, even as he raised a hand to cover it, “Maybe if I was made of aluminum.”

Turner took a seat at the edge and watched the waves lap at the foundation of the Castle, “Give it a few more years, and this wall’s gonna be underwater.”

Nick sat as well, though far less graceful than she, “Give me a few more years, and I’ll be just a metal frame.” Another line of silence sat in the air at the comment. Perhaps it wasn’t the time to joke about losing things dear.

The silence was different from the one inside. Instead, with the wind whipping at them, if was as if it wanted to clear the air itself.

“How long have you known them? The General?” Turner asked him out of the blue.

“Months, maybe a year or so. I haven’t seen them since the case with Kellogg, and last thing I hear is they’re on a wild goose chase into the Glowing Sea.” Nick was almost glad she was attempting some small talk for once.

“How long have you been a detective?”

Nick took a deep breath, something he didn’t need at all, and released it, “Years. Hard to remember how long.” Suddenly, his hand became the most fascinating thing, and he watched the pistons in his palm slide as he moved his fingers, “Before the PI business, I was more Diamond City’s handyman than anything. You wouldn’t be surprised how people don’t want you around until they need you.”

“It was like that with Desdemona.” Turner started with the synth didn’t continue. “After Metro died… after he got killed, she banned me -- or at least tried -- from the Railroad. Said it was my fault, and the Brotherhood was nothing but trouble.” She dug into her bag and produced her unopened bottle of whiskey, “If it weren’t for Deacon, I don’t know where I’d be right now. He convinced Dez I was worth it with the information I had, and that I wanted to make it up to them.”

The bottle clicked open with a twist, and she gave the orange liquid a skeptical sniff. The aroma bit into her nose, filled with cinnamon and other spices, and with one long swig she made a face. Nick chuckled at the sight. The kid was so determined to drink that she put aside the spiciness of the whiskey and took another long chug.

With a cough, she shut the bottle back again. The alcohol made her feel warm around the collar, and with a shake she presented the bottle to the synth. “Sorry to break it to ya, but alcohol doesn’t do anything for me.” The bottle made it to the ground at her leg, easily within reach.

“But cigarettes do?” Turner teased.

“I told you it was a tick.” The clockwork detective defended even though he knew she was right. Stopping for him would be hard. He’d been doing it for as long as he could remember, some kind of mannerism he picked up from the old world Nick. It was almost as if he thought better with one in his hand occupied, when the familiar feel of a cigarettes was on his lips.

He found he couldn’t quite explain it.

Turner’s cheeks had a light tinge of pink about them, her visage more relaxed. “But yeah, without Deacon, I don’t think…” she pursed her lips in concentration, “Metro had been with the Railroad when we first met. I mean, I didn’t know it then.” She adjusted herself on the wall, one uncomfortable piece of stone stuck into the seat of her pants, “I was out on a recon assignment with some of the other knights. I forget what we were doing. Scavenging for tech or something.”

Nick listened intently as the girl was finally opening up to him. Granted, she might not have been so open if it weren’t for the drink, but even that was up for debate. He remembered their first night out in Goodneighbor involved him carrying her back to her hotel room. She’d had more than enough to drink that night, and wasn’t nearly as vocal.

No, he surmised, it couldn’t have been the whiskey that loosened her tongue.

“We came across this old warehouse in the city, found some pretty interesting tech, but there had to be some kind of hole or something.” Turner opened the bottle of whiskey again and took a light sip, this time without the cringe. “I’m checking out the basement one second, and the next thing I wake up to see the ceiling of a subway. The floor gave way or I fell through or something.”

The synth let her continue, content to just listen. “Landed on my back. Which usually isn’t a big deal in power armour, but my fusion core burnt out somehow.”

“Like a turtle.” Nick interjected, the allusion funny to him.

“I couldn’t eject from the suit, so I just started yelling, hoping the other knights would hear me.” Turner swung the bottle of whiskey around and nearly dropped it into the ocean. As terrifying as it must have been for her, he chuckled. The girl toppled on her back in all too large power armour like an over turned turtle would have been funnier if it happened to someone else. The mental image of Turner swinging her arms around futilely, though, brought a smile to his face.

“After a while, I hear this-this noise, and I thought ‘shit, it’s a feral.’.” She rubbed at her nose with the end of her sleeve, “This guy comes out of nowhere. Didn’t look like a raider, but how could I have known? I couldn’t even grab my gun.” The whiskey bottle was half empty when Turner sat it down again, “He just stood there and watched for a while before finally coming over. Thought maybe he was thinking about just leaving me. But he didn’t.”

“Obviously.” Nick joked, as morbid as the image might have been.

“Instead, he pushes me over. By himself, this guy gets me over to where I can pop the back of my suit. Not even Ingram could lift a full set of armour, and she lives in one.” Kicking her feet, she knocked loose stone away from the wall, “When he unlocked my suit, I was terrified, you know. I come crawling out only to find he’s up and gone already.”

“Not a lot of people would have done the same. Especially when the Brotherhood’s involved.” Nick slid forward to sit at Turner’s side, his feet now hanging from the ledge as well. The wind whipped around him, and with a huff he pulled his hat off and tucked the brim under his leg.

“The Brotherhood had only been in the Commonwealth for a few weeks, maybe a month. Had a hard time explaining to the other knights how I managed to blow out a fusion core and end up in just my skivvies in an old subway tunnel. Had to scuttle the armour completely.”

“I bet that was a sight.”

Turner’s cheeks flared for a second, “Yeah, Maxson thought it was hilarious. Had to clean the rust off the Prydwen’s flight deck for a week. I didn’t find out his name was Metro until later when I was out on another recon mission. We were scouting Bunker Hill in some civy clothes. Literally ran into him.” She punched her palm with her fist, making a “pshoo” noise with her lips.

“Must have hit it off, huh? Can’t say I wouldn’t pay to see that, the way you puffed up about being caught with Hancock.”

Turner blew a short raspberry at him, her head shaking back and forth. “I thought it was kinda ironic. Metro… met him in a metro. Thought maybe he was kidding or it was a codename, but he never said.” Watching the waves below, she didn’t bother to speak directly to the synth, “We… got close. Talked about the Capital -- how different it was compared to the Commonwealth. He told me he came from out west, somewhere in Utah. Place called New Kay-Non or something.”

“You got me there. Don’t get around much myself.”

“We got really close. I would go out any chance I got to meet him in Bunker Hill. At least until Maxson found out.” Her face suddenly fell, her hands curled into one another. “He was pissed. I mean, he normally is.” Turner laughed, “It’s why he’s only got hair in the middle of his head. He pulled out the rest.” The laughter stopped, “When he found out about me and Metro, though…”

“What was so wrong about you being with someone? You’re a ‘big’ girl.” Nick received a playful slap to his shoulder. He wanted to keep the air light around them, despite how badly Turner’s story was going.

“The Brotherhood, or at least the Brotherhood out west -- initially -- wasn’t too keen on fraternizing with wastelanders. When Maxson took over as Elder, we went back to the old ways again, gathered up the Outcasts that left when Lyons was around. I came back to the Prydwen one night after being on the ground, helping out in the airport, only to find Maxson had brought Metro and some others aboard. He, or Riddik, at least, found some Railroad agents tampering with our tech. I knew Metro was with the Railroad, mainly after Deacon interrupted a more… uh, personal thing. I never thought…”

“You couldn’t have known. How do you know Metro wasn’t just trying to use you to get close to the Brotherhood?” The detective expected a look of scorn from Turner, but what he got was a rueful smile.

“I know. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense, but even Deacon thought the only reason I was with Metro was to find out the location of the Railroad.” Turner took another swig before closing the bottle halfheartedly, the bottle falling over. “It wasn’t until Maxson ordered their execution that I had to step in. Apparently, he’d known about my trips to Bunker Hill, and ordered Riddik to keep an eye on me.”

She rubbed at her eyes like they were bothered, though Nick knew the motion was to hide the shimmer at the corners. “Riddik killed them. Maxson took care of Metro personally. Like, just… I couldn’t have been a coincidence that it was him of people that was caught.” A rapid hand motion sent her forward, like she was slapping at the air in pent up anger.

Nick put a hand in her hood to hold her steady, afraid she might actually fall in the water.

“Found out Metro was a synth. A Gen 3. Only gave Maxson more of a reason to say ‘I told you so”. After all the time I spent with Metro, it made me think: How could the Brotherhood believe they were just machines? That they weren’t like you or me.”

Nick wanted to say something, wanted to correct her, but he didn’t have the heart.

Metro was a Gen 3 synth? He let the idea sink in.

A synth so advanced they breathed, bled, sweat, walked about the Commonwealth like any ordinary person. “I mean, I never had anything against synths or androids. I even used to spend time around Underworld when I could just to see the ghouls. After what Maxson and Riddik did, I couldn’t stay with the Brotherhood. I just couldn’t.”

“So that’s when you left. Deacon take you under his wing?” Turner nodded at the detective’s question, her hands buried under her thighs to keep them still.

It felt good to vent to someone for once. Sure, Deacon was there and so was Hancock, but she’d barely mentioned Metro around the latter. She supposed now that Nick knew she ought to tell the ghoul. It was only fair.

“So him being a synth didn’t bother you?”

Turner shook her head, “If anything, it only made me believe even harder that they were real people, with feelings and all that.” She went to grab the almost empty bottle again, but a gentle hand on her arm stopped her. “You’re not helping.” She forced a laugh through a sniffle, and let the bottle fall from her hand. “I went off on a tangent. Sorry.”

Nick only smiled and shook his head, “Don’t worry about it, kid. You pourin’ you heart out -- it’s only fair I share a few things.”

\---

Seated at the gate of Bunker Hill was a single guard, a half-peeled tato in hand. Bored, he glanced across the street and up and around the gate. Same old noises, same old street. Nothing was amiss, just like every other day. Even the same raiders shouted in the distance, the same swears, same old shit.

Tato nearly peeled, the guard threw it into a nearby bucket and began on another.

Unexpectedly, it slipped from his hand and rolled down the stone steps toward the street.

Looking up to watch the tato roll, it stopped at the foot of an iron-clad wanderer stood alone in the center of the road. Cape billowing in the wind, the stranger was an intimidating sight.

“Howdy there.” The guard began with trepidation in his voice. His hand moved slowly to grab at the handle of the gun on his hip. “You a trader or here on business?”

Not bothering to reply, the metal soldier took a single step forward, the tato smashing to bits under the weight of their armoured frame.

Riddik approached the gate, powered sledge in hand, and began the trek up the stairs.

“Now you stop right there and give me an answer.” The guard warned, “If you ain’t here on business or to trade, you best skedaddle.” Riddik took the last step and stood heads over the man, nearly two feet taller in the gleam of the sun, “We don’t want no trouble.”

With one deep look into the guard’s eyes, the man took a step back, his gun drawn against the Paladin’s chest plate. “Don’t make me use this! I will! I mean it!”

And without breaking eye contact with the guard, Riddik grabbed hold of the gun by the barrel and ripped it from his grasp. It landed somewhere amongst the brush, and a second later the Paladin took hold of the man’s head.

Metal digits dug into the guard’s flesh, their hold like a vice on his skull. And much like the gun, Riddik threw the man with ease down the stairs, though not before a sickening crack escaped the guard’s neck.

The Paladin strode into Bunker Hill unchallenged and stood before the stone obelisk at its center. A young child peeked around the corner of the monument and watched the Brotherhood boogieman, the scene with the guard frozen in his mind.

He had seen it all.

 Yellow lenses trained on the boy a moment later, and with one step the small boy fled, racing away into a shack against the outer wall.

Into the center shop Riddik walked, all eyes in the room upon them like a shadow had obscured the sun. It wasn’t common to see a “wastelander” in power armour, and in such immaculate condition. Instantly, there was an electric buzz in the air, a deep dread that spread through the room like wild fire. From the back end of the shop emerged Knight Nine, blocking the only other exit as wary traders exited the room quickly past Riddik.

The Paladin made their way toward the back counter, Nine close behind, drawing toward where an older gentleman stood.

At the sound of thundering footsteps, Old Man Stockton looked up from his glass and spied the approaching Brotherhood soldiers.

It was high time for him to leave.

Stockton reached under his counter and took hold of a large carpenter’s bag, filled to the brim with contracts and other wares for the various traders in town. He turned to sneak out of a thin opening in the wall.

Only to find Knight Eleven blocking the way.

Straining against the wood of the opening, Eleven pushed his way through, a heavy hand knotted into the ascot around Stockton’s neck.

“A word, if you will.” Eleven addressed him evenly. Riddik and Nine stood calmly as their fellow knight led the anxious man back into the room, the Paladin holding their sledge against the floor like a cane. “Where are they hiding?” Cooed the knight at Stockton’s back, pushing him forward toward Riddik.

“What are you talking about? The caravans?” The room grew quiet, and it was only then that Stockton noticed there was no noise from outside the walls.

“Do not play dumb with us. You are an agent of the Railroad, Mister Stockton.” Eleven hissed into his ear, his voice filled with faint static. “One of your fellows was more than willing to tell us of the synths hiding here in Bunker Hill. Now, if you would be so kind.” Stockton was stuck in the middle of the three behemoths, Riddik’s helm tilted to the side curiously. “Now, I’ll not ask again. Where. Are. They?”

In a fit of rage, Stockton threw his bag to the ground, the objects within clattering onto the tiled floor. “You listen here! I’ll not be bullied by-by the likes of you. You’ve no right! No evidence!”

“I’m sorry, Paladin, but he is most uncooperative.” Eleven shook his head in feigned sadness at his failure to goad the old man.

Riddik strode forward, sledge left back next to Nine where it remained standing, and crushed whatever laid under their feet as they approached Stockton. With one push, the old man fell onto his back and crumpled before the Paladin.

Striding around the fallen man, Riddik came to a stop at his side.

A loud crack followed by a pain filled bellow pierced the air, the Paladin’s foot slammed down on Stockton’s hand. Riddik merely watched as the Railroad agent squirmed under their weight, red flecks now painted on the tattered ends of their cape.

They raised their foot, and with the weight lifted Stockton dared not look at what remained of his limb.

Riddik extended their left hand back and waited for Nine to pick up the abandoned power sledge. The familiar weight fell into their grasp, their servo clenching around the hilt. Stockton watched the sledge’s head hover above his face, his eyes crossed at the large weapon so close to falling.

The sledge fell upon his cheek and pinned his head to the floor, Riddik leaning leisurely on the hilt. Bones shifting and jaw cracking, Stockton yelled out, muffled and pained. “Down under the shop! There’s a hatch! They’re down there!” he grasped at the sledge with his one good hand, but it didn’t budge. If anything, it pressed harder into his cheekbone.

Riddik watched over the curve of their arms, their yellow lenses ablaze in the lantern light. “It’s the truth! I swear! Just let me go! I’ll tell you anything.”

All of a sudden, the weight lifted from Stockton’s head, the sledge now planted by Riddik’s foot. He sat up and cradled his hand under his arm, too afraid to look at it.

He regretted the action, however, as his eyes traveled to the scraping of the sledge’s head against the tile. Before Stockton knew it, the weapon was raised on high, cast above Riddik’s head.

Before he had a chance to scream, Riddik swung down.

\---

Down into the basement, Riddik dropped. Their cape gathered up and around their pauldron, weighed down by newfound saturation, the once brilliant blue now partially dyed a vibrant scarlet. The scent of copper clung to them, pungent and strong like a morbid cologne.

They stalked down the darkened hall until they came to an open doorway, a large store room just beyond. Above ground, Eleven and Nine remained at Riddik’s order and dealt with the remainder of Bunker hill. This would be the Paladin’s mission, and theirs alone.

Into the store room they walked, feet resounding on the grated catwalk. Dozens of eyes watched from the shadows, too afraid to reveal themselves, too afraid after the screams that erupted topside.

This armoured behemoth was no Stockton, no friend of the Railroad, and surely there had to be a way out.

Once in the middle of the room, Riddik dug into an ammo pouch hidden under their cape, pulling forth three toxic green grenades. Hot plasma sat in their hand and illuminated the ghastly features of their helm.

And with the most ginger of throws, underhand and dainty, Riddik scattered them into the darkness.

The noise that came next was music to their ears.

\---

Turner opened her eyes slowly, the smell of salt heavy in the wind. She must have dozed off for a few minutes while Nick talked, regaling her with some of his earliest cases. Who knew someone would pay a detective to find a teddy bear of all things… though, from the way the synth talked about it, it was almost like he hadn’t been paid at all.

It wasn’t until she came fully back to her senses that she noticed her cheek was pressed against Nick’s arm, her fingers wrapped around the end of his coat sleeve. Startled, she shot up and threw his sleeve from her hand, her cheeks reddened by more than just the alcohol.

Nick laughed at her revelation, “Was wonderin’ when you’d wake back up. Guess my stories aren’t nearly as interesting as Ellie makes them out to be.”

Turner rubbed her eyes and shook her head, a faint line of spittle at the corner of her mouth. She must have been out like a light.

“Good thing you were asleep, I suppose. I was getting sentimental.” Nick gave her a wink, which she met instantly with a rather ferocious “plllbbbllttt”.

Standing, Turner shook out her coat, accidentally kicking the mostly empty whiskey bottle off the edge of the wall. The two of them watched it fall down into the waves where it disappeared. Some Mirelurks were up for a nice surprise if one came across it.

“Yeah, well.” Turner couldn’t think of a witty comeback and crossed her arms. She would just have to settle with giving the synth the cold shoulder.

Nick stood as well and patted off his hat on his pants leg, fixing it straight on his brow before the wind ruined it again. “Suppose we should head back in. See how Deacon and Hancock are doin’. Put you down for a nap.”

“Ha ha.” Came her forced response as she followed behind the detective, her gait wobbly and slow. Her faculties weren’t as in check as she would have liked, and she struggled to keep her feet straight. The wind wasn’t of much help as she teetered at the edge of the wall, her shoes slipping on the smoothed stone.

As fate would have it, Nick walked halfway down the steps into the Castle, content to finally have a lit cigarette in hand. “You know, the Metro thing.” He began, his words gauged before he said them, “I was wondering--”

He turned to look over his shoulder and spy Turner, only he found the stairs empty behind him. Nick shuffled back up the steps to glance around, and yet the girl was nowhere to be found. He doubted she found another way down into the Castle, even less given the state she was in. “C’mon, kid, you’re not that drunk. I ought to know. I didn’t have to carry you.”

Back on top, the synth looked every which way and still came up with nothing. It wasn’t until he heard frantic splashing down below that he headed to the edge of the stone wall.

“Kid!”

\---

Bundled under a pile of uncomfortable and oh-so itchy wool blankets sat Turner. Dressed down to nothing, she shivered beside an old hearth, her clothes, spare clothes, teddy, and bag hung up to dry. Alongside her things was Nick’s coat, soaked after he met the sobered girl at the beachside and walked her back up to the Castle.

“I leave you guys alone for a few minutes, and you have all the fun without me.” Hancock slid his newfound bottle of vodka from one hand to the other, the very same from Turner’s bag. He’d already imbibed some of the drink, just enough to start a fire in his belly. “Didn’t take you as the swimming type, Nick. Sunshine try to make you go in skinny with her?”

Nick leant back into the couch, his hat hung on the end of the armrest. “Hardly. Looks like she got a bath at least.”

Reeking of salt water, Turner was anything but clean and most certainly not toasty. The water had been like ice, and it soaked her to the bone. Her lungs were constricted as she swam to shore, weighed down by her bag and the weight of her new coat. The detective’s pants legs were still wet around the ankles, though she hardly expected the synth to dress down in front of anyone.

If he had, Turner would have thought it due to the drink.

She pulled the blankets tightly around her chin and shivered still, even under the covers. Hancock noticed and gave her a suggestive grin, the vodka bottle clasped tightly in one hand. “Want me to join you in there? Last time I checked, you said I was your own personal bed warmer.” He only chuckled when Turner plopped down on her side, a mess of blankets and annoyance.

She wouldn’t dignify him on with a response.

When she and Nick arrived back at the Castle’s gate, they’d been greeted by Deacon. “Lemme guess, lemme guess. Did the Beach Queen try to return to her people?” The agent laughed as the synth held back the waterlogged girl, hauling her back into the Castle’s walls. When Preston caught them in the halls, he raced away to gather blankets.

One ailing person was enough, and the Minuteman was too afraid of another.

Turner shifted under her covers, wrapped up like a caterpillar to prevent any rogue skin from showing. She wasn’t too fond of being in the buff, and much less pleased about having her delicates on display as they dried. She decided, though, she’d rather be warm and comfortable, than cold and sopping wet.

Curling into her blankets, she glanced at Nick on the couch. She stared for a minute or two, not realizing she was doing so. The detective looked to be lost in thought, his glowing eyes trained on the metal hand laid in his lap.

It wasn’t until his fingers curled that he looked up and locked eyes with her. In what could only be described as embarrassment at being caught, Turner dug deeper into her covers until she vanished from sight.

She would stew for a while, and try to forget the sadness in Nick’s eyes.

\---

Up Next!

Now that the Railroad has the schematics to a teleporter, how will they prepare to take on the Institute? With Riddik once again tracking down their ragtag group, how much time do they have left until the Boogieman once again comes knocking? And once back in Goodneighbor, will Turner realize it’s not polite to hug every robot in town, much less kiss them?

Stay tuned for Chapter 12: Third Rail Shock!


	13. Third Rail Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a little late with this chapter! O0O I was under the weather for most of the weekend, and school and work were sapping most of my energy. I would have posted this sunday, but my internet went out just as I was about to (because of course it did).
> 
> I just wanted to thank all of you for your support and amazing art! You guys really do keep me going when I'm having a rough time, and I can't thank you enough! Thank you!

 

Turner and Hancock by [BigGreenFeet](http://biggreenfeet.tumblr.com/post/136964755077/hancock-prepare-for-trouble-turner-make-it)! Check them out!

\---

Chapter 12: Third Rail Shock

\---

A thick fog rolled in during the late hours of the night and remained even as the sun rose over the Castle, blanketing Boston in a white cloud.

Luckily, Turner’s swim didn’t cause any ill effects other than embarrassment on her part and time under the covers, though she found she could hardly get warm even in front of the fire. In the morning, however, when her clothes were deemed dry enough, she gathered them up and waddled her way into the Castle’s courtyard.

Her jacket, once soft the day before, was now stiff and uncomfortable and hung loosely on her frame as she walked into the morning light. Not that it hadn’t been before, but it was now a cumbersome loose, exasperated by the fact that it reeked of the ocean.

Stood ready at the radio tower were Deacon and Hancock, idly talking over a smoke in the lull only morning could bring. Nick was nowhere to be seen as Turner approached the pair, her bag slung over her shoulder, the teddy’s head stuck out from flap on top.  

“Not going ‘au naturale’ today?” Deacon asked, well aware of how she spent the night. “I will if you will.”

Turner sniffled in the cold fog, the air brisk in her lungs. “It’s too cold and no one wants to see that. But if you wanna distract some raiders, be my guest.” Deacon clicked his fingers in response, the cigarette at the corner of his mouth moving up and down. “Where’s Nick?”

Hancock exhaled heavily through what was left of his nose, “Sayin’ goodbye to the General. Damn shame, ya know?”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Turner rubbed at her nose with her sleeve. The detective looked so downtrodden, so sullen the previous night after they’d talked. She felt guilty for not remembering much of what he said before nodding off. She was hopeful that he wouldn’t take it personally.

The trio waited and listened to the radio tower tick, the soft music over the intercoms almost fitting in the morning -- the fog giving the Castle an air of timelessness. Perhaps ten minutes later, Nick appeared from one of the stone archways and headed toward them, his head bowed as he walked. If a synth could look tired, then Nick was exhausted.

“Ready to head out?” Hancock asked as he butted his cigarette under his boot. “Place makes me itchy.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Walking ahead of them all, Nick waved at Preston atop the Castle’s walls. Turner would miss the place somewhat, if only for the protection the walls provided. She supposed Diamond City offered the same feeling, at least for the time being. All the Railroad needed now was Riddik to find their new hideout.

The group exited back out onto the beach where the fog engulfed the sandy road and most of the buildings across the water. It was so thick, Turner swore she could grab it -- she tried with the wave of a hand, and wasn’t at all surprised when it wafted about. Out in the unknown, the sound of gulls could be heard, and somewhere in the mist they watched (at least if what Deacon said was right).

The synth stayed ahead of the group even at their leisurely gait, the other three not far behind. No one said a thing as they walked, and from the back of the group the ghoul cleared his throat.

A light tap came to Turner’s back as she waved her hand through the fog, Hancock’s finger drumming on her coat to get her attention. Without a word, he nodded in Nick’s direction. If anyone was gonna talk to the out-of-sorts bot, she supposed it would have to be her. Deacon could hardly be trusted, and Hancock had a hard enough time sharing things even with her.

Trotting forward, Turner ambled up alongside Nick, though she remained quiet. The synth took note of her presence, his luminescent eyes flashing to her, and yet he didn’t speak. If he didn’t want to talk right out of the gate, she wouldn’t force him.

Even if it made her uncomfortable to see him so withdrawn.

Turner spotted a dented tin can on the road, and as nonchalant as she could manage she kicked it ahead of them and to the side. Maybe reenacting their first day out of Diamond City would spark some conversation. If she had to, she could shake the teddy about in his face. “That might be overkill.” She told herself, her hand on top of the teddy’s head.

The can landed in front of Nick, and Turner almost swore he would simply bypass the metal detritus. Instead, the toe of his shoe met it and sent it flying forward loudly. It twisted in a circle and clacked on the pavement before she continued the game and kicked it again.

The silent game went on through the fog until Turner kicked the can far too hard and sent it skidding into the thick mist, the sound of its hollow clanks echoing in the quiet morning. She had to say something. She had to get him out of this rut, if even only for her sake.

“What’s a gilded grasshopper?” Turner prodded as the beach wound back into the city.

Something must have clicked in Nick’s processor as his head snapped up, registering the girl at his side. “Must have been when you were taking a cat nap.” He chuckled, “It was a case. Old partner of mine went off by himself to find some damn sculpture.” There came a pause like he pondered the memory, “Super Mutants didn’t play nice.”

Turner inwardly ground her knuckles into her skull. She would have known that if she returned the courtesy and just stayed awake.

“Finished the case for him, though. It was the least I could do.” Nick dug into his pocket and lifted a cigarette to his lips. He didn’t light it, however, and it hung limply, bouncing up and down with each step. “You’re not cold, are you?”

Brain stuttering for a moment, Turner gawked. “No. No, I’m fine. Thanks.” She cleared her throat nervously as the question certainly caught her off-guard. “Just wish my coat smelled better.” The tin can finally came back into view and Nick took the incentive to kick it first. “Are we headed back to Diamond City, then?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you were the leader, kid.” Nick laughed at the look that crossed Turner’s face.

She wasn’t used to being in charge, even back in the Brotherhood. There was always a higher up, someone with far more authority than she, whether it be Danse, Maxson, or even Riddik. “Hancock’s would be a better leader than me. Even Deacon, as untrue as that sounds.” The agent behind them scoffed, joined by the ghoul in making a series of disapproving noises.

“Don’t see them walking ahead of the pack.”

“Well, I’m worried about all this fog.” Turner admitted, “If it doesn’t let up, I don’t think traveling all the way to Diamond City is the safest thing to do.” She looked back over her shoulder to the two stragglers and waved them forward to join her and Nick. “If the fog doesn’t lighten up, I say we stop in Goodneighbor. What do you think?”

Hancock made a noise between a laugh and a snort, “Wouldn’t mind checking in. Make sure Fahrenheit didn’t burn down the statehouse while I was gone.”

Turner knew he was joking. The ghoul’s bodyguard and friend was more than capable enough in taking care of Goodneighbor, maybe even better than Hancock himself. The ghoul had to have missed the town, though, with all its eccentricity and eclecticism. When they traveled, there wasn’t nearly enough fun on the road. At least, not the kind of fun he was looking for.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Deacon saluted her and pulled Hancock’s hat off to place on her head, skewed at just enough of an angle at Turner could look at Nick from the corner of her eye.

Only to find he was smiling.

\---

Engulfing even the inner roads of Boston proper, or what was left of them, the fog slowed the group as they meandered cautiously down the streets. It made traversing the ruins more difficult and far more dangerous. So much so that heading to Goodneighbor until the fog let up was the only safe option. Who knew what lay in the ruins: Raiders, mutants, maybe even a synth or two. Even close to midday, it refused to let up, and they hardly made progress toward the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth.

Deacon found amusement in disappearing into the mist only to reappear somewhere up ahead -- usually posed in some bizarre fashion. Nick actually found it quite astounding how quickly and noiselessly the Railroad agent could move, at least in comparison to the boisterous girl at his side who seemed to trip on every bit of litter.

Turner was a mess, constantly having to catch herself after slipping on some loose sediment or random obstruction. Come nightfall, she would be sporting one hell of a bruise on her knee from a surprise attack by a fire hydrant.

According to her, it came out of nowhere. A bright red, metal hydrant.

Sandwiched between Nick and Hancock, the latter having buttoned his frock up against the chill lurking in the shadows, Turner sniffled. Perhaps she was wrong in thinking her fall into the water left no ill effects.

“So, I get to play Mayor for one more night?” The ghoul surmised and pulled Turner close to his side. The warmth that radiated from him was a comfort, and if they weren’t in company of Nick and Deacon she might have relaxed.

“Or you can stay and play Mayor forever.” She joked, but Hancock gave a bark of a laugh.

“Ain’t happenin’, Sunshine. I wanna see where this teleporter thing goes.”

Deacon waited up ahead, seated on an old postbox, the blue paint faded and peeling. He sat like a gargoyle, hunched over, his hands between his feet, his mouth ajar. If he stayed like that any longer, a bird would make a nest in there.

He leapt down as the trio passed him, pulling Nick and Hancock close enough that Turner was squished betwixt them. “We gotta keep the team together. Bound at the hip. We ride together, we…?” He ruffled Turner’s hair after letting go of Nick. “Finish it. C’mon.”

“Quit it.” Turner batted at his hands exasperatedly and blew a raspberry up into the air. She pushed out and away from being stuck and continued on at Nick’s other side, far away from Deacon. “We don’t trust anyone.” She began and peeked out from behind the synth, “Especially not you.”

Deacon was pleased with her answer, even if it wasn’t the one he was looking for. “See, you do listen to me. I’m so proud.” He wiped away a fake tear. “Where’s my camera? Gotta document this moment.”

\---

Even as the group approached the wall surrounding Goodneighbor, the fog didn’t let up. If anything, it only got thicker as time went by. It wouldn’t have surprised Turner if there was another storm brewing out over the water the way the clouds overhead moved at a startling click.

They walked closely together, or at least as close as she was willing to allow. For only a minute did Deacon walk right behind her, clipping her heels with his shoes. A quick punch to the arm stopped him, if only for a time, and she spent the remainder of their walk doing figure eights around the ghoul and synth to avoid him.

Turner ran ahead of them all to the bend that led to Goodneighbor’s gates, yelling at the last moment, “Beat you to the gate!” She bounced just out of sight even as Hancock readied to run after her.

A short squeak and stumble back into view made them all run instead, racing to find what was the matter.

“Kid, what’s wrong? What--” Nick skidded to a halt against Turner’s side, his hands flying to hold her steady on her feet. Hancock and Deacon joined next, gathered around behind them, their guns readied.

The four of them peered down the alley that lay littered with the remains of Gen 1 and 2 synths, all at different levels of damage and disarray, all of them inactive.

 The scene was macabre. Anyone who dared approach Goodneighbor must have turned tail immediately at the sight.

“Shit.” Hancock sprinted forward to the gate and barged into Goodneighbor, worried that the worst may have happened whilst he was gone. Deacon went next, leaving the girl and the synth behind to stare at the mass of metal and plastic.

“Quite the welcome home gift.” Nick started nervously, put on edge from being around so many of his kind, so many faces he saw every day. It was unnerving to see how many synths were piled up around the gate, many of them half the bot they used to be, worse for wear than even the detective.

“Thought it was you for a second.” Turner admitted and moved out of the Detective’s hold, oblivious to the way his digits dug into her coat as she moved along through the remains.

There must have been a good twenty or so synths, all in different levels of disrepair, all missing a part of their person or another. It chilled Turner how she didn’t realize until then they all had the same face as Nick, or vice-versa, and suddenly she felt ill.

Pushing past the Institute’s soldiers, she continued after Hancock through the gate, Nick not far behind.

Nothing seemed out of place or worse for wear, except for the occasional bullet hole and cattywampus sign. Deacon looked about, stoic behind those glasses of his, but anyone around could tell the gears in his head were turning.

Why would the Institute attack Goodneighbor? The Railroad didn’t keep too many of their runaways there, and if they did then not for long. The synths must have been searching for something. Or someone.

Turner walked up to KLEO’s shop and inspected the Assaultron, or more correctly, her wares. The bot was down some rather heavy duty firepower, and she didn’t doubt the robot used them to combat the synths that lay broken outside. “KLEO, what happened with all the synths outside town?”

“They showed up the other night, baby.” KLEO walked out from behind her counter, strutting the only way an Assaultron could. “Tried running off with the singer.”

“Magnolia?” Turner was confused, and from the looks of it so was Nick. The detective, as was to be expected, listened intently and silently. “Why would they want her?”

KLEO’s optic focused on Turner, the aperture of her eye growing smaller. “A little bit of firepower was just the trick.”

“She used a mini-nuke.” Came another voice from the doorway, Daisy, the ghoul in the shop next door, piping in. “Good thing it was out of town, or else there wouldn’t be a Goodneighbor to return to.”

“You don’t say.” Nick finally added, “Here I thought they got talked down and disassembled themselves.”

Daisy gave one laugh, her arms crossed over her chest. “They came out of the damn walls the day after you all left. Don’t know why they took a liking to Magnolia of all people.”

“Siren’s call for robots?” Turner joked lamely, and scratched the back of her neck when it failed. She waited for Deacon to save the day, but came to find he was nowhere in sight. “Did you happen to see where Hancock went?”

In unison, the Assaultron and ghoul replied, “Statehouse.”

\---

After giving the Assaultron and ghoul outside quick hugs (if only to assure herself they were alright), Turner skipped up the steps to the old statehouse. Nick held the door open and followed behind her into the dim abode. The detective was thinking things through in that processor of his, his eyes alert and sharp. No doubt he was storing what information he could within his advanced circuitry, finding reasons within reasons as to why the Institute would attack Goodneighbor of all places.

There was chatter from upstairs, two voices that were undoubtedly Hancock and Fahrenheit. The former sounded upset and maybe a bit confused, and maybe even slightly relieved. It was hard to tell with the way his voice fluctuated from loud to quiet, and back again.

On the approach to the stairs, Turner spotted a half-asleep Grisby, cigar hanging from his lips and a healing gash on his forehead. “Grisby.” She called, and tapped her palm against the step he sat on, staring up through the banister.

The guard snapped awake and scrambled to keep his cigar in check. Turner came into focus and then the synth at her back, nearly sparking a shout from the drowsy guard. “Ridley? Shit, you scared the hell out of me. You and your, uh… friend, here. Valentine.” He ground the end of his cigar, “Boss is upstairs.”

Speak of the devil, Hancock became suddenly louder, something incomprehensible leaving his throat at something Fahrenheit said. “Might want to get up there. Talk him down a bit, yeah? Nursin’ a headache, here.”

Turner and Nick lumbered up the stairs and into Hancock’s room, Fahrenheit lounged on the couch across from him, the picture of relaxed. In his gnarled hand, the ghoul held an inhaler of jet, shaking it back and forth if only to keep himself occupied while the high kicked in. He must have already taken a hit or twelve the way he was so naturally calm in the time it took them to climb the steps.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Fahrenheit addressed the duo in the doorway, her eyes lingering on the synth close to Turner’s side. “You missed all the fun.”

Hancock must have been terribly worked up, for when he finished his inhaler he began on another and chased it with a shot of vodka.

“Heard about Magnolia.” Nick began as he pressed Turner unwillingly further into the room, “Everyone else alright?”

“So Fahrenheit says. Gotta see for myself.” Hancock drawled into his drink, his palm against his brow. He rose from his seat, and with one last shot he shook himself, “Let’s get down to the Rail. I wanna talk with Maggie.”

The ghoul must have been all shook up at the idea that his town, the very place he swore to protect, was attacked at the one time he was away. It wasn’t often he was quiet, and as Turner and Nick followed behind back down to the ground floor they exchanged a look.

Once outside, the air lightened in the open streets, less constricting and tight like inside the statehouse. Hancock visibly relaxed then, his shoulders fallen and swagger back in his step. It may have just been the jet at work, or the sight of his people alive and well despite the carnage outside the walls, but the change put him at ease.

The streets were still bathed in a thick fog like the whole of the Commonwealth had been that morning, and Nick wondered if it had been fortuitous circumstance that they ended up there. And so did Turner by the look she gave him. What if they had continued on to Diamond City instead?

Turner hadn’t meant to stare, but at that moment the clockwork detective became the most interesting thing in the world -- eyes glowing in the fog, the lights from the overhead lamps creating sharp lines on his face. Catching herself, she looked away so quickly she heard her neck creak in protest. If the synth noticed her prolonged look, he didn’t mention it.

The door into the Third Rail had been repaired rather shoddily, several boards nailed into it to cover the numerous bullet holes that threatened to tear it apart. Inside didn’t look much different than it normally did, but Ham, Magnolia’s personal guard as well as the Rail’s, sported a slung arm, his hand bandaged.

Glass from a shattered sign littered the floor and stairs, the shards crunching under the soles of Turner’s ratty shoes as they traversed the stairs down into the bar. Nothing was amiss inside: patrons drank, Whitechapel Charlie served (and swore), MacCready sat alone, and Magnolia sang.

Hancock couldn’t be any more pleased at the sight.

When they made the landing, Magnolia spotted them from on stage, her song coming to an abrupt end. With a wave to the bar patrons, she stepped down and headed over to the ghoul Mayor. “Hope you’re here for more than just a drink and a song.” She cooed with a genuine smile.

“Heard what happened? You alright?” Hancock asked, getting straight to the point.

“Better than usual, actually.” Magnolia pivoted on one heeled foot, the sequins on her dress glimmering as they caught every bit of light in the room. “No need to worry about little old me. I was in good hands.” She gave a lopsided smile and a flutter of her lashes, “Be sure to give Ham a raise.”

A light laugh trickled from Hancock, and Turner took a step forward to speak, “Any idea why the synths were after you?”

Magnolia’s attention fell on her, “Can’t say I know, sweetheart. I hear they tried getting into the Memory Den, too, but the watch and KLEO put a stop to that.”

“Only people in there are Amari and Irma most of the time.” Nick pondered his thoughts aloud, organizing what he could in the old processor. Later, he’d piece it together and see if anything fit. “Amari, maybe.” His eyes trailed to Turner, and she looked to be thinking the same thing.

Magnolia led them over to a small room on the edge of the bar, taking a seat on a rather plush sofa once they were away from the drifters and rabble. Sitting next to her, Hancock relaxed, if only a bit, Turner and Nick across from them on a far less comfortable couch.

“No one really knows what they wanted. Happened just after you all left.” Magnolia crossed her legs at the knee, reclining against the arm rest, “You saw how many were outside, didn’t you? Took the town a few days to clean everything out.”

Over the next few minutes, she regaled them with all that happened. The Institute synths stormed the town, armed to the teeth, and yet no one had been killed. Turner thought it strange Magnolia made no mention of a Courser but perhaps none of them knew who they were dealing with. From her experience, if the bruises still around her neck were enough to testify, whenever the Institute wanted someone they didn’t send older generation models out.

No, they sent a hunter, someone specifically designed for the sole purpose of seeking out another: A Courser. Maybe the Courser in Diamond City tied in somehow, Turner wondered.

She was vexed, and for good reason. None of it added up. None of it made any sense.

Hopefully, Deacon would find out more, wherever he was in town. She hated not knowing. Next to her, Nick gathered what he could and stored it away for review. Despite his time as a detective and the superior computational power he possessed, even he struggled to find a motive, a modus operandi, anything. There needed to be more facts, for now he was coming up empty.

Turner didn’t notice Hancock stood until he tapped her arm with the back of his hand. With a questioning look, she readied to stand, but the hand on her shoulder kept her seated. “I’m gonna take a walk around. Check in with everyone. Be back later.”

Of course, Hancock could go off on his own. He was mayor after all, and as such he needed to know his people were well after what happened during his absence. It might have been a crutch should she follow along despite having been seen with him numerous times before. “I learn anything, I’ll tell ya.” He rustled Turner’s hair gently and made his way from the room with Magnolia at his arm, leaving only her and Nick behind.

They both sat there thinking, wondering as to why the Institute took such an interest in the place. “It doesn’t make any sense.” Turner voiced her thoughts, “You make anything of it?”

Nick held his chin in his palm, his eyes down in thought, “Can’t say I can. There’s too many holes.” He sighed and sat back against the couch, “Hear me out, but what if Magnolia is a synth? She wouldn’t know, and that would explain why they went after her.”

Turner locked eyes with him, “That doesn’t explain Amari, though, or why there wasn’t a Courser. I mean, maybe they knew the doc was helping the Railroad, and that’s why. Older Gens attack settlements all the time for parts and tech. It might have been that.” She slouched back to join him, her tone defeated, “Or Magnolia could be a Gen 3.”

Nick knew then that Turner understood the third generation problem better than most. Metro was still fresh in his mind, and no doubt in hers as well. Obviously, the idea that someone could be stolen away and replaced was a terrifying prospect, and yet what of the synths that didn’t know what they truly were?

Fiddling with the waist strap of his coat, Nick watched the metal bits and bobs of his hand shift and move. He needed to tighten a screw or two soon, else the whole thing might fall off.

There was an uncomfortable pause in the air, even as music played over the radio somewhere out in the bar. “Kid, can I ask you for a favour?” he began, and caught her attention immediately, “You don’t have to say yes.”

Going out on a limb, Nick needed to share something that had haunted him for some time, something that he hadn’t talked about the other night even when Turner had been listening. All this talk of death, of Coursers, of losing loved ones to those hell bent on revenge or envy, the synth needed to vent. He leant forward with his elbows on his knees and caught her eye.

Turner was wary of whatever plagued the synth, the way his whole mood changed, the simple shift of being open one moment to being drawn the next. The look on his face was too grievous to be a simple favour, and still she found it hard to say no.

It must have been the way Nick looked, the way he carried himself throughout the day, as Turner found it difficult to deny his request. “Shoot.” She answered slowly, taking a page from Hancock’s book of calculated replies.

The detective struggled to find the words to start, and hesitated with his mouth open. “There’s an old case I… haven’t solved. Had it for a while now.”

“How long’s a while?”

“A lot longer than I’ve been around.” The response was confusing, but Turner let him continue, “But you got me thinkin’. Before the bombs, back when the real Nick, the human Nick was around, there was this,” he flexed his right hand around his wrist, “There was this crime lord, they called him, Eddie Winter. Long list of crimes from larceny to murder, and everything in between.”

“The real Nick?” Turner questioned, not fully understanding. Third generation synths were often given memories that weren’t their own, memories taken from someone else, or those of the people they were to replace. Was the Nick who sat beside her saying what she thought he was?

“Yeah. Not plastic and wire, and,” The detective stopped himself before he went off on a tirade, “Nick was working this case: Winter’s End. Got too deep. He had a… a girl. Jenny. When he got too close, Winter killed her.” The Nick before her tilted his chin up to stare at her, “I’ve got these memories, his memories. Nick’s. Winter went on, turned himself ghoul. Probably the first damn one, too. He hid himself away, and now I’ve got all this stuck up here.” He tapped the side of his head, “Winter is hiding out here in Boston, and I know where.”

“Why haven’t you gone after him, then? Make him pay? Get revenge or something?” Turner leant forward to watch the synth detective more closely. His yellow optics darted from her face, to the mostly healed cut on her brow, to the bruises around her neck. “If I could--” she thought of Maxson for a moment and stopped herself.

“I want to, but there’s a catch. There’s a code, numbers hidden on tapes Winter made. All of them can get me into that bunker of his, and I can close this case for good, stop worrying about the old Nick.” His bare hand gripped the edge of the couch, metal fingers almost tearing through the fabric, “I wanted to ask if you’d help me. I know we haven’t known each other long, kid, and I won’t blame you if you say no.”

Turner’s mouth opened to respond and then shut, only to open again. But there were no words. Nick wanted help to get revenge for the death of someone he loved, or at least someone the original Nick loved -- she wasn’t quite sure if the synth at her side felt the same way about this Jenny as the other Nick did. To be stuck with those memories gnawing at him day in and day out must have been miserable.

Turner scooted across the couch to sit as close to Nick as she could, surprised in herself for pulling his hand away from clutching so desperately to the cushion. How could she say no? How often after Metro was killed, how often after she left the Brotherhood did she want to strangle Maxson with her own two hands? How often did she lay awake wanting to strike back at them, but was too afraid, too weak to do anything by herself?

She only wished she had the courage to ask like Nick did.

“I wanna help. I -- yeah. I’ll help.” Turner released his hand and rubbed at her neck.

Nick almost didn’t believe what he heard. This ragamuffin girl with a chip on her shoulder the size of a super mutant agreed to help him. He should have been elated, ecstatic that someone wanted to help, and yet there was an inkling in his mind that didn’t keep quiet.

Sure, they hadn’t known each other but for maybe a few weeks, but he didn’t want to see the kid get hurt, didn’t want to see her end up like Jenny all because some busted bot asked her for a favour. “Thanks, kid. It means a lot to me.”

Nick stood from the couch, some of his joints creaking loudly in the process. Turner stood next, but instead of walking out to the bar like her brain wanted her to, she stepped forward. She caught the synth in an unexpected hug, unexpected even to her, and gave a quick peck to the worn skin cheek.

It was different than the hug back in North End Church. It wasn’t one to shut the clockwork detective up or to prove a point. No, this was a hug Turner needed, and maybe even Nick needed -- that calm in being held by another person. The kiss he could hardly explain.

The synth stiffened for a second and expected a witty quip to erupt from the small agent. When he received none, he looked down at her, the top of her head just barely grazing his chin.

The sound of quite clicks and hums could be heard as Turner stood there embracing him. She hardly expected him to reciprocate, and jumped somewhat as heavy arms curled around her shoulders, pulling her tight.

Maybe they both needed to know someone would help, even if it was just one person.

Sensing the scene was getting too sappy even for her, Turner pulled away and cleared her throat, her hug quota for the day and the rest of the week filled. “You should get a tune-up,” she began to mask the red on her cheeks, “New spark plugs. Sounds like you’re back firing.”

Nick knew exactly what she was doing and grinned. Let the kid hide her sheepishness and embarrassment in her snarky remarks. He didn’t expect any different.

“Well, when we get back to Diamond City, I’ll have to schedule an appointment. You’re just gonna have to live with the back firing until then.”

\---

Up Next!

As the Railroad sets about building the teleporter, Turner and Nick cast off in search of Eddie Winter’s tapes! As they venture across the Commonwealth, what perils lay in store for them? What happens when the Institute catches wind that one of their Coursers hasn’t returned, and an agent of the Railroad and robotic detective are to blame?

Stay tuned for Chapter 13: Synth Soiree!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything you'd like to see? Comment and I'll see if I can fit it in!


	14. Synth Soiree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome! Thank you for your support!
> 
> Sorry, these posts are getting a little erratic @w@ I get so busy with school work, and work, and well... work that it's hard for me to get 5,000-7,000 words typed! I got it, though! 
> 
> This chapter is actually my longest one, yet! About 7,500 words! If you notice any mistakes, please be sure to tell me!

 

[Some doodles of mine for this chapter](http://esuerc.tumblr.com/) uwu

\---

Later that night, Hancock returned from his look about town, not surprised to find Turner and Nick seated at the bar in the Third Rail. What did surprise him, though, was that the former of the two wasn’t nursing a drink. Instead, she sat close to the synth and looked over the napkin he drew on, her cheek cradled in her palm.

The ghoul strutted forward and put his arms around the both of them, Nick drawing a jagged line off the napkin and onto the counter. To the ghoul mayor, it looked to be nothing more than a few lines and circles, but it must have meant something to the two of them.

“What’re you up to? Plotting?” Hancock asked and knocked the synth’s hat askew.

Nick slid Hancock’s arm off from around the back of his neck, and fixed the collar of his coat with a snap.

“I agreed to help Nick with something personal. Just kinda mapping things out.” Turner explained as Hancock stood behind her, his hands plated firmly on the edge of her seat.

He gave a quiet chuckle, “Personal or ‘personal’?” Leaning forward he smiled near her ear, which earned him a quick punch to push him away. “So, you’re helpin’ out Nicky, liar-liar-pants-on-fire is buildin’ the teleporter. Where’s that leave me?”

Turner shied away, suddenly bashful, and behind her Nick didn’t say anything -- it wasn’t his place, really. The sudden quiet didn’t bode well for any of them, and the tension that filled the air was almost palpable.

The uncomfortable silence got to him, for Hancock slowly spun Turner around on her stool to face him. He stared at her, waiting for an answer, and didn’t miss that she refused to look at him, her eyes to the floor.

“Ridley.” Her first name was never used unless he wanted something, or she was in trouble. It was either Sunshine or Turner, and Ridley was strictly reserved for when he wanted her undivided attention. “You leavin’ without me again?”

Turner couldn’t tell if he was playing or genuinely upset. Either way, he would respect her choice even if she chose to leave him behind in Goodneighbor, but the way he watched and waited for an answer made it difficult to talk.

“I’ll be back.” Nick started and stood from his stool, “Let the two of you talk.” The detective walked across the room and to the stage, probably to ask Magnolia for more information, and left Turner and Hancock at the bar.

“On the house.” Whitechapel Charlie drawled, placing down a glass behind Turner at the sight of “the boss”.

“It’ll only be for a few weeks. Like, two, tops. Just long enough to help Nick, and for the Railroad to get the teleporter built.” Came Turner’s excuse, poorly fumbled on her tongue as she locked her fingers together.

Hancock was less than enthusiastic as he took Nick’s seat with a grunt, swiping up the proffered drink to down it in one go. “You do you, sunshine.”

“You said that last time and then waited outside town.” Turner watched the ghoul smirk into his glass knowingly. “Look. Nick… told me some things. We had this talk back at the Castle, and--” she stopped and shifted on her stool, the hardly-padded plastic uncomfortable under her bottom. “I just wanna help.”

Hancock stared at the bottom of his glass in solemn contemplation, obviously working out Turner leaving him behind.

“Hancock.” Turner stopped herself short. Two could play at the name game. Sure, it was a dirty tactic, but the ghoul started it. “John.” The ghoul’s ebon eyes shifted from the glass to the pale hand on the counter. “I’m gonna come back. I did last time.”

At that moment, Hancock fell in on himself and slid the glass from one hand to the other. “I know you can take care of yourself, and I know Nick’s got your back. I ain’t worried about that.” Turner stopped his hand before he slid the glass away, soft against rough. “That Brotherhood freak still out there. It don’t bother you that some asshole’s got your number? Shit, you saw what they did to Ticonderoga, sunshine. Your HQ. It ain’t gonna be all of us out there. Just you, Nick, and a fuckin’ freak.” Twisting his hand so that it laid palm up, his fingers coiled around hers. “And that Courser in Diamond City? You think the Institute ain’t caught onto that?”

Hancock made plenty of valid points, all poignant and painfully obvious. Turner stared at her hand in his, her eyes veiled and all too aware of the way Whitechapel Charlie listened in on their conversation.

Finally, she relented. “Ask Nick if he’s alright with it.”

“He ain’t got a choice.” The ghoul stood from his seat and pulled her along with him, his arm slung across her back. “Charlie, get me a bottle of vodka!” he yelled merrily back to the bot behind the counter. “And a Shirley Temple for the runt.”

“Make it whiskey, Charlie.” Turner corrected, and didn’t miss the handyman return with “Shirley Temple, comin’ right up.”

Together, they walked over to Nick, who seemed to find the floor the most fascinating thing in the world that very second. “Hey, Nick. Look who invited himself along.”

The synth didn’t answer, however, his eyes trained intently on his shoes. “You defragging your hard drive? We’re in public.”

Turner waved her hand in front of the synth’s face, which did the trick. He snapped at attention and spied the small agent, her hand still in front of his face. “Sorry, was runnin’ a diagnostic. Was,” he adjusted his hat and stared at them, his gaze lingering on Turner, “Feelin’ a bit off. Think I fixed it.”

“You got a virus? Been hanging around dirty bots when I’m sleeping?” She asked, all too willing to jest.

“Very funny, kid. As far as I can tell, you’re the one who went for a swim and hasn’t bathed. Maybe it’s from you.”

Turner’s cheeks flared painfully, and her ears burned.

Back to basics spelt nothing but trouble for the three of them.

Turner slithered her way out of Hancock’s hold and made her way to the stairs in a flash, avoiding several drifters that entered the bar. “Where you off to? Got your Shirley ready.” He asked, but didn’t bother to follow.

“Using your bath. Washing this coat, too.” She yelled down from halfway up the steps, leaning over the banister. “Bring the drink up, if you’re so determined.”

Turner disappeared behind the wall as Nick spoke, “Don’t forget behind the ears, kid. And make sure to drain that head of yours afterwards.”

She poked her head out from the top of the stairs, nearly falling, all to give the synth one long, wet raspberry. Then she disappeared again, her heavy footfalls echoing down the stairwell.

“Doesn’t take much, does it?”

\---

By the time Nick and Hancock left the Third Rail, it was already into the late hours of the night. They stood on the stoop and gazed out into the thick rainfall that covered Goodneighbor and all of Boston like a blanket, glowing in neon light.

Ducking their heads low and holding onto their hats, the two of them sprinted down the sidewalk and into the Old Statehouse. Instantly, a wall of warm, dry air hit them, their coats already soaked from the short time in the rain.

Hancock removed his hat as he tread up the stairs, ready to ask Fahrenheit where Turner had run off to for the night, only to find the girl asleep on the couch. She was curled up in clothes that obviously weren’t hers, the rest of her belongings including her coat drying near the windows.

“Don’t ask me where she got them. They look like some of your old stuff.” Fahrenheit explained, visible only from two lit lanterns in the room. Thunder rolled outside, rapturous and heavy, booming out in the distance, “Now that you’re here, I’m off for the night.”

The bodyguard stood and made her way into the hall, vanishing up the stairs. Nick and Hancock stood in the archway and waited, almost as if they believed Turner would wake the second they walked inside. But she didn’t move, the slow rise and fall of her chest any indication that she was actually asleep.

Shrugging off his frock, Hancock draped it across the back of a wooden chair, quietly as to not disturb the slumbering Turner. “She’s got the right idea.” The ghoul stretched and took a seat on the couch opposite her, conscious of the way the springs squealed under his weight.

Nick took the liberty of walking about the room, watching the rainfall through the dirty panes of glass. If it were only slightly colder, he imagined a blanket of snow would cover Goodneighbor by that point. Turner could build herself a nice radioactive snowman. As far as the synth was concerned, the thing would probably come to life with or without the hat.

“So, you and sunshine were talkin’ about some personal pet project.” Hancock started, causing Nick to look at him questioningly, “Give me the lowdown.”

\---

Morning brought with it fresh air, albeit cold, and puddles abound. Turner watched from the balcony of the Old Statehouse as Drinkin’ Buddy escaped the confines of the Rexford and tumbled about, nearly tripping on the curb side. One of the neighborhood watch at the door to the Rail was kind enough to get the bot back on its feet and on its way to the Rexford again.

But not without a good natured slap to the bot’s frame in the process.

Deacon had surprised her that morning and woke her from a sound sleep as he planted his hind end on the couch with enough force to catapult her. He heard it from whatever a “grapevine” was that both she and Hancock would accompany Nick on his “quest”, leaving the “poor defenseless Railroad agent” all on his own.

He proceeded to fall dramatically on her lap as she turned to stand from the couch, “Leaving me with teleporter duty.” He complained as she shoved him, but didn’t budge.

“You can take all the credit, then.” Turner told him. “I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks. I’ll get you a souvenir.” Like a mini nuke or a bundle of radioactive spores arranged in a lovely bouquet.

“I want one of those birds you tap and its beak goes in the water.” Deacon placed his hands behind his head and relaxed, his legs crossed at the ankle. “Get me one of those, and we’re square.”

When Turner finally pushed him off her lap, his rump landed on the floor, his hands still placed under his head. “And a coffee mug. One with ‘World’s Number One Liar’ on it.”

From her perch, she watched Nick amble around down below, ready and waiting to head off on their journey. Admittedly, she was still somewhat confused by the whole thing: did her Nick feel the same way about that girl that was killed as the original Nick did? Or was it that the original Nick’s memories just bothered him so?

Turner puffed. “Her Nick”. Technically, she thought, he was the only Nick she knew, so it wasn’t wrong to say so. She shook her head, nevertheless.

Leaning out over the railing, she took a bottlecap from her pocket and dropped it over the edge. It landed on the detective’s hat before falling to the ground, clinking on the pavement.

Tilting his hat up, Nick looked to her on the balcony, a smile on his lips, “You causin’ trouble already?” he picked up the cap and bounced it in his good hand. “Come on and get some supplies. The others are ready.”

Turner swung her leg over the railing (struggling from her short stature) and climbed around. The cap in Nick’s hand stilled. “Take the door, kid, unless you’re lookin’ to break somethin’.”

“Then catch me.” She waggled her head and extended one foot out, holding tight to the railing.

“Pretty sure you overestimate my strength. Don’t know what bot you’ve been hanging around.” Nick realized what he said a little too late. Maybe Metro had been strong enough to catch her, strong enough to carry the kid around, sweep her off her feet (only to be punched, probably). He was hardly Herculean himself, but he’d make the effort if need be.

“You carried me up the stairs that one time.” Turner broke him from his thoughts. Their first night out came to mind -- he could have easily left her in the Third Rail, told Hancock to take her off his hands, and yet…

“Yeah, well, me and gravity had an arrangement then. Two on one ain’t exactly fair.” Regardless, he stood beneath her, ready if she slipped or was determined enough to actually jump.

“Fine.” Turner sighed, defeated, and clambered back over the rail to safety. Nick heard the door creak open and shut, and finally let his hands droop to his side.

“Come on, Romeo.” The neighborhood watch jested at the corner, leaning against the stone. “You coulda caught her.”

“Like catchin’ a sack of bricks.” The synth corrected, “And I’m hardly a Romeo. Pretty sure he had most of his face.”

The guard snorted, not at all convinced.  

\---

Parting was indeed sweet sorrow as Turner, Nick, and Hancock separated from Deacon at the gates of Diamond City. He made sure to give the synth and ghoul a short list of needs for Turner -- less than secretly.

Nick couldn’t help but notice it was nothing more than a cat care manual:

Give food

Give water

Give loving pats, but avoid the belly

Hancock jovially announced he had it all covered and gave Turner two pats on the head before the edge of his hand was nearly caught between her teeth. “Little Deathclaw” was still more accurate that cat.

And so the three continued North out of city bounds, following the detective’s lead. There were police stations scattered all throughout Boston, some deeper within the city, and others on the very outskirts of civilization -- and all were unknowns. They had no idea what may lay within the ruins of one of the stations, or if the stations were even still there. What if the bombs destroyed one of the tapes?

Out of ten tapes left behind by Eddie Winter, Nick possessed only one, and shared it with Turner. He watched as she spun the two-hundred and some year old tape in her hands, the orange faded and white discolored. She had nothing to play it on and settled on the synth merely telling her.

Nick had the words memorized after so many years, the sound of Winter’s voice burned into the back of his mind. After all that time, he finally had someone he trusted enough to help out, pleasantly surprised when Turner was the one to extend a hand. Soon enough, he could put the old Nick behind him.

Crossing the northbound bridge away from the city, the wide expanse of the Commonwealth stood before Turner. The air opened as the tall buildings shortened to nothing more than the wreckages of diners and gas stations, the shells of pre-war Boston like old relics.

Nick led them along, his steps determined, his eyes straight to the northeast horizon. The husks of trees dotted the landscape along the road, the asphalt cragged and covered in underbrush.

Turner took a deep breath and held the brisk air in her lungs, the tip of her nose cold. “How come you didn’t get all these tapes already?” she asked innocently enough. “You said you had an old partner, right? Why didn’t he help?”

Nick chewed on the end of his cigarette, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, his posture slouched. “Wanted to ask, sure. Hard to trust people, get them motivated for somethin’ that, in the end, will get them nothin’.” He dropped his spent cigarette to the ground, “Tried getting rid of the memories, first. Got a bit of a reputation in the Den.”

“Ha, if you thought it was that easy, I woulda tried.” Hancock picked a blade of dead grass and spun it between his fingers, “Everyone’s got shit they wanna forget.”

The three of them went silent, all realizing they were more than guilty.

“So, what happens when we get all these tapes? You open a holotape player on your chest, and we take a listen?” Turner avoided the synth’s playful swipe and trotted ahead a few steps. “Or do you just open your mouth and spit out a bunch of tape with numbers on them?”

“Yeah, I find myself a good seat, lean back, and print out the results. I’ll make sure they’re in crayon so you can read them. In big numbers, too.” It was Nick’s turn to avoid Turner’s slap, a wide smile on her face.

\---

The BADTFL, or, and Turner mentally took a deep breath, the Bureau of Alcohol, Drugs, Tobacco, Firearms, and Lasers was a decrepit wreck. Not that the building was out of place in the Commonwealth, but she wondered if there used to be a sign somewhere with the whole name on it. Make it all one long word to save space: TheBureauofAlcoholDrugsTobaccoFirearmsandLasers -- there, easy.

Turner skipped up the flight of steps and onto the porch of the station, marching under the overhang to a set of blue double doors. Deep down, she hoped they would be in and out without a fuss, and head on to wherever Nick led them next. But how would they know where Winter’s holotape was in the building? It might take them hours of searching, and that was assuming the tape was even still there after all those years.

“Should be a terminal that’ll tell us where the next tape is, if Raiders haven’t made themselves comfy.” It was almost like he read her mind. Nick came up the steps and joined her at the doors, taking notice of every little detail about the place.

“You sure this isn’t some wild goose chase?” Hancock asked, and propped himself beside the door, tapping the toe of his boot on the ground. In his hands, he toyed with his knife, letting it swoop between his fingers delicately and practised. As mesmerising as it was, Turner looked away.

She gripped the handle of one of the doors, and twisted it. It was loose in her palm, shaking about like it was ready to fall out of place. “It’s worth a shot.” What shocked her was that the doors weren’t thrown from their hinges as she opened them, a stagnant air billowing out around her.

No one had been in the building for years, the dust of decay on every surface, the foyer half covered by plaster that had fallen from the ceiling.

Nick poked his head in over Turner’s shoulder, Hancock mimicking him. Together, they stepped inside cautiously, closing the doors back as quietly as possible to avoid the wind catching them.

“It’s like a tomb in here.” Nick stated, and kicked at the dust that coated the floor. A cloud rose up and hovered in front of his face, and with several fans of his hand it dispersed.

The station was dead quiet, particles of what Turner hoped was dust floating about in the air. Moving a folder across one of the rusted, metal desks, she noted the outline left behind and skimmed through the dingy pages. Much of the ink was faded, the papers discoloured, and they looked to be nothing more than arrest records to be filed away.

“Got any idea where this tape might be?” Turner asked as the replaced the folder carelessly back on the desk.

Nick walked through the foyer and down a hall, his eyes trained on the old world relics strewn about: bulletins, flyers, wanted posters -- all of them seemed too familiar, remnants of the original Nick’s life. Running a hand across the pinned notices, he continued down the hall with Turner and Hancock in tow. “Chances are, it’s in evidence lock-up.” He answered at last and swung right, heading toward a cell on the far wall.

The bars were still fixed in place after two hundred plus years, though corrosion found its way onto every surface on and around them. Inactive cameras watched them from on high, their lenses fogged over and cases warped.

Turner took notice of all the weapons, ammunition, and supplies locked up just out of reach, the most notable being a fat man and a bright orange holotape on a shelf. She glanced upwards to follow the communication wire that ran from the cell gate, up and along with crumbling plaster of the ceiling.

Sadly, the wire was cut halfway along its journey, dangling uselessly in the din.

“Locked tight.” The detective stated the obvious and gave the gate one measured pull. It clanked in place and gave only a centimeter of movement, just enough to fool someone into thinking it would open.

“Hancock, you think you can get in?” Turner asked as she strode up to the bars and pressed her face against them to look more closely inside.

Hancock waltzed up to the gate and kneeled to take a closer look at the lock, his hand rummaging in the confines of his frock. “Sure, give me a bit, and I’ll have it. Ain’t nothin’ I can’t open.” He laughed and gave her a wry smile, an inside joke he didn’t bother to explain.

The detective ran his hand down one of the bars, chipping away a layer of rust. “While you’re at it, I want to take a look around, see if there’s anything else useful.” Nick turned and began down the length of the room, toward a door placed in the very corner.

“I’m gonna look around with Nick. You gonna be okay?” Turner questioned Hancock as he began work on the lock, one of his bobby pins snapping immediately.

“No worries, I got this. I’ll give you a holler when I’m done.”

Turner spun on her heel and followed after Nick, racing into a large bullpen littered with desks and broken terminals. Nick stood in the center and watched one of the terminals come to life before him, the green letters flickering, totally unaware as she entered the room.

“Find anything, or are you just flirting with the it?” she joked, holding firm to the handrail as she descended.

Nick pulled his attention from the terminal with a shake of his head, “Just whispering sweet nothings. I’m a bit rusty.” The synth defended, his fingers going away at the keys. “Mostly old records, but there’s some good stuff on here.”

Turner walked around the slew of desks to join him, reading the glowing text. Another of the tapes was stashed away in a station across the water, not too far to the west. Why the tapes were scattered in such a way, she’d never know -- it was more inconvenient than anything (though she supposed back then, all it took was a call to get some information or transcription).

They at least had their heading.

Looking about at the environment, she took in the high ceiling and broken fans, a large bulletin board on the main wall filled with “recent” reports and activity. To her right was a wall of wood and translucent glass, the word “Chief” painted on the pane of the door. Perhaps there was more information inside, or at least something of use, she wondered, and pulled away from the desk. “What do you think they did here? It’s like the scribe room back in the Citadel.”

The door to the Chief’s office creaked loudly, the wood dry and aged. It squealed on its un-oiled hinges as she pushed it open fully, peering into the dim office. “Anything interesting?” Nick asked as he joined her at the door frame.

The office was desolate and mostly empty, already cleaned out, the safe in the corner missing its door. No doubt, it had been picked clean not long after all hell broke loose. Turner looked around and spotted a fedora left behind on the coat rack, plucking it with a grin.

She placed it atop Nick’s pre-existing hat and patted it down, “Double detective.” She said and watched him take his hat and separate it from its newest addition.

“Junior detective.” He corrected, and placed it on her head, tilting it down over her eyes.

\---

There was still no luck with the cell door, Hancock having taken his hat off to concentrate more closely on his work. A small pile of picks lay at his knee, the lock giving him one hell of a time. He was out of sorts with the whole thing -- it had been quite some time since he had to have his way with a lock, and he was almost happy Turner wasn’t around to see it.

She’d probably make some awful joke about performance issues.

With one slow, painful twist of his fulcrum, the lock finally clicked and gave Hancock the satisfaction of opening. He stood and replaced his hat, fixing the tails of his coat. “Took long enough. Shit.”

From his pocket, he produced an inhaler of jet and raised it to his lips to take a hit, a congratulatory high.

A noise caught his attention, though, the sound of double doors opening. He lowered his inhaler and placed his hand on the grip of his gun, unsure of whom or what was joining their party in the precinct.

It couldn’t have been Nick, and Turner wasn’t the type to prank.

From the main door of the station several voices sounded, their words calculated and timed. There was something robotic to it, a tinny hint to their tones, and they drew ever closer to where the ghoul stood.

Hancock secreted himself away in a nearby broom closet and held his gun at the ready, a bullet in the chamber and the hammer drawn back. Fifteen sets of feet echoed on the walls, metal clacking on the tiled floor.

It was then that Hancock knew they were in trouble, for the unmistakable yellow eyes of Institute synths glowed in the darkness.

\---

Turner placed her bag down in the Chief’s office and stuffed random odds and ends inside, mostly ammo she found hidden in the drawers of the Chief’s desk. It wasn’t anything they could use, but it would certainly earn her a few caps the next time they came across a trader.

Nick was behind her, reading commemorative papers and seals hung up on the wall, a trifold flag placed on an empty bookshelf to his side. There was a list of fallen officers detailed in a frame, charcoal rubbings sealed away behind a dirtied sheet of glass.

“You think Hancock got it yet?” Turner asked and snapped her bag shut. The bag was heavier to be sure, but she would just have to make do with the added weight.

Her question was answered, however, as shots rang out, the two of them immediately readying themselves.

Several voices filled the hall, and down the steps into the bullpen strode several Gen 2 synths, their laser weapons readied and drawn. More shots rang from the other room and then ceased, and Turner’s mind fell to the worst of thoughts.

What if Hancock was hurt, what if he’d been killed? Despite the images that sprang to mind, she and Nick watched from the crack of the door, too unsure as to how many synths were present.

Did they come after them because of the ordeal with the Courser? Turner couldn’t imagine any other reason. It was too coincidental.

“We have to do something.” She told Nick even as he held her in place by the arm, his pistol raised, barrel through the crack of the door. “We can’t just stay in here.”

“It’s too dangerous, kid. There’s too many of them.” He counted them all quickly. It couldn’t have been any more than seven or so from what he could see, and the odds were certainly not in their favour. “Got your gun?” she nodded in response, “I’m gonna take one of them out. They’re gonna swarm afterwards. I want you to run, check on Hancock, and make it to the door.”

That was it? Nick was telling her to run from the problem? What would they earn from that, and how exactly would that stop the Institute from following? If they tracked them down to the BADTFL so easily, what was going to stop them from tracking them across the Commonwealth? But as much as she hated the idea, she couldn’t argue. They were outnumbered and possibly outmatched.

“Alright?” Nick asked, too close to her ear. One of the synths outside searched about near to the door, gun poised.

“Alright.” Turner replied, defeated.

“On three. One. Two.” Nick took aim at the synth that stood near to them, his finger ready on the trigger. “Three!”

One shot nailed the Gen 2 in the head, sending it pirouetting backwards to the floor. It shuddered with a spark or two before it stilled, its gun skidding on the tile. Turner burst from the door and scurried forward, taking the gun in hand. She hid behind a desk as the others opened fired on the Chief’s office, shattering one of the windows as Nick ran to the left, away from her hiding spot.

Turner crouched and made her way across the wall, laser fire dyeing the room a deep blue in flashes that burned her eyes. Nick took down another synth, and yet five more remained as she made it to the steps, crowding around the detective as he guarded himself behind a desk.

Firing a single shot, Turner nailed one of them in the leg, sending it to its knees. The other synths trained on her immediately, their glowing optics wide and calculating. “Target spotted.” One of them declared evenly, and strode forward to the steps. Nick rose from his spot and fired again, striking another of the bots down before they all turned to take on the girl.

The one continued on toward her as Nick leapt from the desk and through a door, the others giving chase. Turner ran from the bullpen and into the hall, spotting four more synths gathered around a shut door. There was no sign of Hancock, and she hoped he was lucky enough to have sealed himself away (if the way they gathered was any indication).

Raising the pistol she’d stolen from one of their fallen brethren, she fired blindly at the group, shooting the arm off one of them, and striking another in the neck. They didn’t fall, and instead turned their attention to her. “Do not resist.” One of them ordered calmly, but she didn’t listen.

She dodged at the last moment the arms that threatened to encircle her, the synth at her back nearly forgotten. She felt the way its metal fingers scraped at her coat, and suddenly she was fully aware of the situation.

The scene frightened her. All around her were the faces of Nick, not some unknown synths or mass-produced robots, and for a second she struggled to draw breath. One of them drew forward in a run, arm outstretched to grab at her.

Turner backed away and fired, knocking important cables and pistons from place, slowing the synth down. But they did not relent even as she turned to run to the door like Nick instructed, firing behind her blindly.

The gun was ripped from her hand by the barrel, one of the synths catching up to her. She was only fifteen feet from the door, and yet they were steps ahead -- two more synths standing in the opening. The synth that stole her gun encircled her with skeletal arms, its bare metal hands clutching tightly at her coat.

Turner struggled and kicked, ramming her foot back into the synth’s knee until it gave way. It’s arms loosened, but did not let her go, still holding firm to the back of her coat even as she jumped out of its arms. The two synths at the door strode forward and took hold of her arms, dragging her down to the floor.

Try as she might, she was pinned, her cheek pressed painfully against the tile while three synths held her down. “Please stop resisting.” One of them asked from behind, and earned a swift kick to the face, several of its metal teeth falling from place.

Turner was terrified. Hancock might have been dead, Nick was down below, probably overtaken, and she was caught, ready to be taken away. And all the while, she screwed her eyes shut at the collection of yellow optics that held her in place, too afraid to watch.

Several shots filled the air from behind them, one of the synths holding her down falling to the floor, unmoving. The air was suddenly filled with gun fire, rapid like that of a submachine gun, two more of the synths gathered around Turner falling before they could fight back.

Another gun joined in and fired into the fray, until only one of the synths remained to hold Turner down. Soon, it joined its fellow and clattered to the floor a heap of inactive metal, its eyes still wide open and watching.

Turner sat up amongst the wreckage and threw one clutching hand from her coat. At the hall’s entrance stood Nick and Hancock, guns they had taken from the lock-up in hand. She was relieved to see the synth and ghoul largely unharmed, though one of the sleeves of Hancock’s frock was burned through, the damage beneath already sealed by the heat of laser fire.

“You guys okay?” she asked before they had the chance to speak, and stood in the circle of unmoving synths. Refusing to look down at them, she stumbled out and away from the bodies, and walked to the waiting men.

“Should be askin’ you that? Why didn’t you run?” Nick asked as he inspected her, noticing a new tear around her hood. The detective took out the other Gen 2s down in the basement, using the twists and turns to his advantage until none remained. Hoping to find Turner gone from the station, he was shocked to see her dog piled not far from the door.

“She did.” Hancock corrected, and placed his gun on the ground. “Got myself stuck in a broom closet. She distracted them, let us get the jump.” He laughed to lighten the situation, and yet was fully aware of how the synths swarmed Turner.

The sight had set something off in Nick, watching as those who bore his face trapped the girl under them. The Institute was after them now, and with them and Riddik waiting in the wings, he wondered just how difficult their journey would become. His mouth hung open to speak, but he found he didn’t have any words. Instead, he flexed his hand tightly around his newfound gun, and pondered.

Turner pulled at Hancock’s sleeve and inspected the wound beneath it, the skin an ugly pink. “I’ve got some Stimpaks in my bag. Come on.” The ghoul followed her back down the hall and neither noticed how Nick remained standing in the foyer.

The clockwork detective looked down at the pile of synths gathered at the door, at all those who pulled Turner down. What if they had taken her? How could he ever explain that to Deacon, to Hancock?

Nick let his eyes droop and his shoulders sag, the gun in his hand aimed lazily at the floor. They didn’t take her. He wouldn’t have to explain. He told himself things that would hopefully bring him peace, and yet he couldn’t help but stare at the unmoving synths he and Hancock slew.

Nick turned and gathered his thoughts, making his way to join Turner and Hancock.

\---

There were hands, dozens of them, metal digits digging into her flesh. Turner struggled as they held her down, engulfed her in a darkness so thick it pulled the air from her lungs. The sensation was like drowning, her throat filled with water as she tried to yell for help.

Only all around her, yellow eyes watched, tens of them, and then hundreds. They watched her squirm in the darkness, their metal hands still affixed to her limbs, groping with racking claws.

Deeper down into the void she was dragged, until the weight suddenly lifted from her lungs. Her eyes opened to a blinding light, the red tinge of the Prydwen’s command deck all too familiar.

Try as she might, Turner hadn’t the strength to stand, still held down on her knees by the weight of hands around her. Only then did she realize what trapped her.

Synths clung to her, their fingers prodding and faces near. She recoiled, lifting her chin and shutting her eyes to avoid the sight.

It may not have been him, but it terrified her to see Nick’s face before her, his yellow eyes boring into hers. They stared unbroken and unabashedly, two hands coiled around her collar.

Opening her eyes again, she stared forward, too afraid to look down at the synths that trapped her. And there at the edge of the deck, just before the windows, stood Maxson. He stood tall, his hands cupped at the small of his back, and watched the clouds that obscured the ground below.

Words spilled from his mouth, but they were garbled, like speaking underwater. One thing was certain as Maxson turned to face her. Something was wrong -- that couldn’t be Arthur, couldn’t be the boy she grew up with -- that monster with the face like stone, those eyes so sharp and deadly.

His form shifted and grew, and in Maxson’s place stood the grim visage of Riddik, yellow lenses trained on her. They took one step forward, then another, and another, so tortuously slow, until their metal clad feet stood not far from her face.

Riddik circled around her, the synths that trapped her following the Paladin, their glowing irises never leaving. Turner wanted to twist her head to follow the monster, that vague feeling of someone behind her making the hairs on her neck stand on end. She locked her eyes shut as the synth right in front of her watched her steadily, the android’s hand cold against her skin.

When she opened her eyes again, there sat Nick, one fleshy hand and one of bare metal locked behind her neck. From behind her, Riddik returned, the head of their power sledge falling to the ground with an impossibly violent rumble. With one heft, they raised it on high, Turner pulling her eyes from Nick to watch the sledge arc upwards.

But just as the head of the sledge passed Riddik’s helm, their mask transformed. And there in their place stood Metro clad in that terrifying armour, his weapon hefted in his hands.

With one scream, Turner watched as the sledge fell toward her.

\---

Turner’s eyes shot open and she found herself in the safety of her bedroll. Her heart raced painfully in her chest, her hands knotted in the fabric of her sleeping bag.

It was just a nightmare and nothing more, she told herself in an attempt to stave off her panic.

Slithering out of her bag and into the cold air of the station, she reveled in the quiet of the night. Nick and Hancock were nowhere to be found in the room, probably out scavenging weapons from the fallen synths. Or maybe Nick was observing the old world building, somewhere the original Nick would have been so at home.

Turner thought back to the month she was alone, on her own to infiltrate the Prydwen. How hard had it been to not talk to herself, when the only person who could listen was her? It wasn’t so now with Nick and Hancock somewhere nearby, but after such a night terror she struggled not to vent to the empty room.

Standing, she took a walk around the perimeter of the room of what must have been the chief of the precinct, a desk with a dingy silver placard on the other side of the room, translucent glass making up one of the main walls. She sat atop the desk, her feet dangling off the edge, the silver bauble in hand.

Spinning it around, it was cool under her fingers, the wood of the desk digging into the backs of her knees. What was it like back then, where something as simple as a glorified nametag and separate office granted authority? If that was the case, Maxson’s nametag would be the Prydwen and Riddik’s some stupid sticker with their name written upside-down on it.

In crayon. With a little gold star.

A creak from the door broke the quiet of the room, and with a start Turner raised the placard to throw. Thankfully, Nick poked his head in to see if she was asleep, attempting to be as silent as possible. He noticed her immediately on the desk and how she held a placard in hand, his brow raised in question.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he asked, and shut the door quietly behind him, leaving it unbolted for when Hancock returned. No doubt the synth could see better in the dark than she, his eyes glowing bright and watching.

Turner replaced her would-be weapon back on the desk and clutched her hands between her knees. She struggled to look at him, the dream fresh at the front of her mind, those bright eyes too tangible.

“Had a bad dream, is all.” Turner explained barely above a whisper.

Nick’s shoulders fell at her admission, “Can’t say I know what that’s like.” He took his hat off and placed it on a rack beside the door. “You alright?” Turner nodded and slid off the desk, taking a seat back atop her bedroll. “Wanna talk about it?”

The detective took a seat on the floor with the desk at his back and waited. Either Turner was still half-asleep, or the dream she had was all too real to talk about. Sensing he should say something to lighten the mood, he opened his mouth to speak, thinking only then what he might say.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got trapped in a vault?” he asked innocently enough.

Turner looked up and shook her head. Even if he had told her the story, she would have said no -- if only to get her mind off things.

Waving his hand to invite her over, Nick gave a lopsided grin. She crawled over to sit at his side, dragging the sleeping bag with her to keep herself off the cold tile.

“It was a typical runaway case. Girl ran off to join some gang, Skinny Malone. Don’t let the name fool ya.” If Nick could puff his cheeks, he would have, but he settled for making a rather large circle with his fingers. “I’ll never get the appeal.”

He continued on with his story of how he followed the trail down into the old subway tunnels under Boston, down into the dark where he came across the door to Vault 114. “Made me think: Are there really hundreds of these things buried out there?”

Even as her eyes fluttered with sleep, Turner continued to listen. Nick told her how he got caught at gunpoint by Skinny Malone and his boys, only to find the missing dame at the wannabe Capone’s side.

Turner slumped on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against him, still listening even as sleep tried to claim her. “The General, Vault Dweller, Survivor.” Nick whisked his hand at the numerous titles, fully aware of the girl almost asleep against him. “Broke me outta there. Couple of weeks of nothin’ but one room, listening to those idiots day in and day out.”

Nick looked down at the girl who now slept against his arm, her fingers curled into his sleeve. “Didn’t think to ask them for help with Winter. Thought they had a full enough plate already with everything going on. Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

Sliding his arm gently from Turner’s hold, he draped it across her shoulders, his hand unsure of what to do other than hover. “I think I like it better this way. Don’t think they’d have the time.”

His eyes traced the tiles on the floor in the dark room, following the broken ceramic up to where his right hand sat. Looking down at it, he moved his fingers one by one, mechanically and fluidly.

“Glad to have ya, sweetheart.”

\---

Up Next:

With one tape down, and several more to go, what perils await Turner and the others as they venture across the Commonwealth? What happens when Riddik isn’t far behind, back on the trail of the traitor, and will stop at nothing until they have her? And will Turner finally confess something that’s been on her mind?

Stay tuned for Chapter 14: Confession!


	15. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being late with this one! I've been under the weather recently, with a cough that just won't go away, and I just finished up my mid-terms! (I got an A owo~)

\---

The air was filled with some kind of birdsong as Turner, Nick, and Hancock walked down the broken highway side by side. “Birdsong” might have been an overstatement and slightly pretentious as the birds couldn’t have been anything more than crows. After what happened the day previous, Turner was paranoid Deacon had been right -- the birds just might have been Institute Watchers.

Quietly moving past, they left the crows behind in the skeletons of the trees, traversing down a steep hillside that had seen a number of mudslides and rockfalls. The road was mostly large chunks of concrete, time having done a number on it over the years, and through the cracks grass grew. An old car or two sat parked alongside, their windows smashed and hulls raided for metal and parts, and if their trunks hadn’t been popped open, Turner would be hard pressed to ignore them further.

Hancock found fun in yanking a branch from a roadside bramble and swinging it about, the tails of his frock billowing in the wind. Earlier that morning, he mixed himself a rather dubious concoction and all but stumbled out of the police station, his frock only half on. He must have fancied himself a pirate then with his newfound stick, a swashbuckler hell-bent on behaving as ludicrously un-pirate-like as possible.

Nick and Turner watched the ghoul stand himself atop a boulder, leaning heavily on one leg, and pointing his branch to the west. The stick wavered as he held it, and with squinted eyes it looked as though Hancock struggled to keep the thing level.

“Are you drunk?” Turner asked playfully and threw another small branch at him. It hit his leg and fell down to the dirt uselessly, though even that caused him to teeter a bit.

“I wish. Ain’t a bar in sight.” Hancock jumped from his perch and stumbled. He threw his branch to the side just in time to catch himself. All he needed to complete the ghoul look was to lose more of his face to the unforgiving pavement. At least a broken nose wasn’t too much of a worry.

“So, is this what you’re like when you’re sober?” Nick added, not breaking a beat as he walked down the road, Turner at his side.

The ghoul laughed and produced a yellow and green tin from his pocket, “Wouldn’t say that.” and then proceeded to drop two mentats on his tongue with a smile.

Nick watched Turner and Hancock share a laugh as she fell behind to join the ghoul, the former pushing the latter away from her. Whatever he must have said made her face turn a bright scarlet, something she immediately tried to hide.

But their jocularity was cut short as she gasped and came to an immediate halt, wobbling forward from such an abrupt stop. Taking Hancock’s hand, she dragged the ghoul toward the synth, taking Nick by the collar as she passed, and pulling them behind a cluster of trees. She peered out from behind the rotted wood to the empty road, her hand tight around the Institute pistol she’d procured back in the BADTFL.

“What did you see?” The detective asked and watched along with her, nothing but empty road before them. Whatever it was, it spooked her through and through -- he’d never seen her eyes go so wide before even in the face of the Brotherhood Boogieman.

Turner shushed him and continued to watch, drawing back behind the tree as the sound of treads crunched on the pavement.

From down the road, the barrel-like body of a Robobrain appeared, it’s metal, claw-like appendages clamping open and shut as it rolled along. It rolled with ease over the broken path, branches crunching under its weight and rocks shifting to give way. The glass dome on top of its frame glowed and flashed every second or so, and all in all, the robot was quite the spectacle.

 “Never seen a bot like that before.” Nick whispered, his eyes tracking the very real, very human brain seated on the Robobrain’s frame. It made him wonder for a moment what he would be like if his design had followed suit, though he supposed the Institute had long since gone the way of the hard drive -- if only to save time.

“Haven’t seen one since the Capital.” Turner explained and didn’t move from their hiding spot even as the Robobrain headed to the southeast. Wherever it was going, it was certainly determined. And she would be damned if she stepped out to give it a hug. Maybe in DC, but most certainly not in the Commonwealth.

Once the Robobrain was out of earshot, Turner jumped from their hiding place and stood in the middle of the road. “How the hell did it get all the way here?” she asked herself, wondering with her knuckles under her chin. Unless the Institute or the Brotherhood had archaic technology she didn’t know about, the brain-harboring robot would remain a conundrum for as long as necessary. Or for as long as it had ammunition to spare.

“Well, that was exciting.” Nick joined her on the road, cigarette on his lips now that the coast was clear. The three of them watched until the mysterious bot was nothing more than a speck, sure that they were safe. He turned and began his way back down the road, Turner and Hancock at either side of him, “You think there’s more of ‘em?”

Hancock jostled his mentats around, “Kinda hard to miss, don’t’cha think?” and proceeded to pop another into his mouth and roll it across his teeth.

Turner looked back over her shoulder and down the road, out to where the Robobrain vanished. She was still quite puzzled, and didn’t doubt for a second her questions would remain unanswered. She supposed it was just another mystery the Commonwealth had up its sleeve, amongst other things, and joined the growing list of odd-goings-on -- the mystery of where she left her other sock at the top of the list.

\---

The wind whipped around Riddik, their cape fluttering about in the open bay of the Vertibird as it raced through the sky. The ground flew by down below as the pilot led them across the scope of outer Boston. Two other vertibirds followed, and would soon break away to patrol the outer reaches of the Commonwealth.

Riddik’s annoyance was only outweighed by their excitement.

The terrible rainfall two days prior had slowed them down considerably, and Riddik was far from pleased about postponing their search due to inclement weather. Bunker Hill had been just the beginning. The denizens had been left largely unscathed, but they knew now the Brotherhood was watching, the decimation of the hidden synths beneath the settlement brought to light.

Maxson was left unawares of their actions, thinking Riddik only searched out Turner, albeit slowly. Not much progress had been made since the discovery of the Railroad Headquarters under North End Church, and if it hadn’t been for Four’s “unfortunate” meeting with a pistol-wielding Turner, the Paladin would have trapped her by now.

But Riddik had promised to corner the traitor, take down everything she knew, everything she loved piece by pathetic piece.

The Brotherhood Paladin adjusted their position, seated at the open side of the VTOL, one leg hanging freely from the Vertibird to sit on the skids. Nine and Eleven watched from the other opening, Nine seated on the gun mount, Eleven stood beside him.

Riddik lowered their shoulders, a growl more than a sigh leaving their helm in a low, guttural hiss. Their destination was an old Railroad compound, the Circuitboard. It had been abandoned when the Railroad was infiltrated by the Institute, but the Paladin didn’t doubt viable information remained therein.

Cowards, the lot of them -- the Institute was too reliant on their abominations to do their bidding, their dirty work. It was shocking that they even managed to send the Railroad packing thus far, though that wasn’t much of an accomplishment. Riddik thought it foolish, relying so heavily on the strength of machines, the minds of non-sentient robots. In the end, it would only spell their doom.

They drummed their fingers on the curve of their greaves and watched as a rotund Robobrain rolled by on the ground, speeding off to the south. Several mole rats ran behind it, lashing out and lunging uselessly at the bot’s metal frame. Riddik watched the Robobrain with interest and curiosity, noted the way it easily pivoted and shot down the bothersome rodents without stopping.

How strange to see it in the Commonwealth, much less in such good condition. Perhaps further investigation would be required when there weren’t more important matter to which they must attend.

For now, Riddik settled back against the frame of the Vertibird, hand curled around the hilt of their powered sledge, and watched Boston roll by in a blur.

Somewhere down there was Ridley Turner. And it was only a matter of time before death caught up with her again.

\---

Turner stood back as the front door to the decimated police station toppled forward off its hinges. She’d knocked only once for humour’s sake, and stood stunned when the simple rap of her knuckles knocked the door away. Nick and Hancock stared at the exchange, waving away the dust that rose afterwards.

Turner stepped on the door and tread “inside”, most of the second floor blasted away. And the windows. And walls. And most of the roof. Hell, most of the police station was gone, a sign reading “OLE TAT” above the door with more than a few letters missing.

Nick followed her, teetering on the door with his arms out to steady himself. “You should be a home renovator, kid. Tell me which wall we should take down to open the room up.”

“Ha, more like home wrecker.” Hancock laughed, but he shook his head as Turner shot him a look from in front of Nick, her brows furrowed and lips pursed. “Not like that, Sunshine. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” The ghoul ruffled her hair and pushed her forward into the station.

Turner tread up the stairs past the synth detective, the boards creaking underfoot, and stood at the landing, her stance wide and chin raised. “No cops allowed.” She stated flatly, and raised her arms to block him.

Nick only smirked and pushed them down back to her sides, spinning her around until her back was to the stairs. “Good thing I’m not a cop, then.”

“Yeah, he’s a robo-cop.” Hancock finished, forcing her further into the offices on the second floor after the synth.

Rummaging through several filing cabinets, Nick slammed them shut when he found them mostly empty. One magazine stashed away inside made him do a double take, though, as he was hardly used to seeing “Buxom Betties” printed on anything.

Turner waddled her way to the office at the very end of the hall, helping herself inside via the broken window looking out to the rest of the office cubicles. The broken glass crunched underfoot as she made her way around the perimeter, the remains of a water cooler near the door and several broken bookshelves. Hancock meandered outside the door and jostled the handle, finding it firmly locked as was to be expected.

Instead of joining Turner inside, he sat on the sill of the broken window; feet propped up on a desk across from him, and studied the blade of his knife. There were several notches and dents he’d have to fix soon enough, but for now it would do. He could even convince himself the imperfections gave it character at the very least.

Searching through the top drawer of the rather lavish desk, Turner spotted the familiar orange of a holotape, “Winter #04” printed on its spine. Pushing away cobwebs, she plucked the tape from the confines of the drawer and wiped off the years of dust on her coat. The connections on the bottom of it were in rough condition, and she worried for a second the thing wouldn’t play. A little cleaning would do the trick, she hoped.

“Hey, Nick.” She called as she scurried back through the window, sidestepping Hancock as he fumbled to take the tape from her. Turner avoided him and nearly ran into Nick’s chest, the tape bouncing in her hands as it almost flew from her fingers.

The detective stared at her expectantly, noticing the orange tape she now held securely. “Good job, kid.” He congratulated, ready to gently take the tape from her. “Should get you a junior detective star.”

Pulling the tape behind her, Turner held it away from the synth’s hand, her tongue poking through her lips, “Gimmie twenty caps.” She joked even as he reached out to grab it.

“Sorry, fresh out.” Nick’s right hand reached over her shoulder to take the tape, but she only leant farther away. “C’mon, kid.” Even if he had a “junior detective star”, Turner certainly wasn’t getting one now. If anything, she was on her way to a smacked bottom.

Swooping around, Turner ducked under his arms, spinning about to face him as he took hold of her hood. He pulled her forward by her collar and snatched up the holotape with two fingers, a grin spread across his features. “Nice try.”

Nick slid the holotape into an inside pocket of his coat and made his way around the office cubicles, around smashed terminals and the like to a faint glow against the wall. From back down the hall, Hancock gave Turner a sneaky smirk from where he sat, all-too amused at what had transpired between the girl and the synth.

As Nick scoured through another terminal, the ghoul waved her over to join him. Reluctantly, Turner made her way over and stood before him, her arms crossed over her chest. She waited for the smirk to fall from his face, but no end was in sight.

When Hancock only continued on with his Cheshire antics, Turner whispered, “What?” in a sharp tone. The knowing look on Hancock’s face only made her annoyance double. His grin only grew wider as he swayed in his seat knowingly, the gleam of his ebon eyes shifting from Turner, to Nick, then back again.

“Shut up.” She warned as she stepped nearer, her hands shifting to sit on her hips.

“I didn’t say anything.” The ghoul laughed under his breath, and never stopped grinning.

Nick ambled over from the cluster of terminals to join them, flexing his right hand as though he just oiled his joints. “What’re you two up to?” The detective noticed the cheeky grin on Hancock and the rather dour look on Turner, and gave the both of them a quirk of his brow.

“Nothin’.” Turner answered first, a bit too quickly.

“Somethin’.” Followed Hancock, a little too smoothly.

\---

Back on the road, Turner walked ahead of the group, her stride long and her arms swinging. Overhead, the hum of vertibirds echoed in the distance, a team of three far enough away that she didn’t worry herself about being seen.

They were headed south, at least from Nick’s estimate, to a station not far from the Glowing Sea -- but hopefully not in it. Luck would have them a decent ways away from the blasted lands that they needn’t worry about radiation rolling in with the wind, though the threat of storms was more than probable.

The skies dyed green, the lighting filled with the deafening crackle of radiation -- Turner found radiation storms beautiful, but far too deadly for her liking. She didn’t much like being caught outside when one came about, and more than once she hunkered longer than what was needed after the rains had stopped “just in case”.

For now, however, the skies were relatively clear.

“She feelin’ alright?” Nick asked Hancock from the back, three tapes secured in the breast pocket of his coat.

Hancock only grinned widely, fully aware he knew something Nick didn’t. “She’s feelin’ dandy. I think Sunshine’s just a little confused at the moment.” The ghoul raised a hand around his mouth to get her attention, “Hey, Sunshine! You stomp any harder, there’s gonna be an earthquake!”

In response, Turner swiveled and walked backwards, and with her arms crossed a loud “pfffllllbbllltt” came from her lips.

Immediately, she stumbled back onto the seat of her pants, knocking the breath from her. As the ghoul and synth came closer, they pulled her to her feet and continued on.

That was enough torment for Turner. For now, at least.

\---

Sat on a stool in the remains of a Red Rocket gas station, Turner looked about. The windows were boarded and the doors (all of them except for one) firmly shut and barricaded, their reprieve for the night surprisingly secure.

They had traveled through the twilight of the evening and well into the night. Nick only stopped when he realized his less-than-synthetic counterparts were tired after a day of travel, admitting a bit sheepishly that he’d gotten tunnel vision.

And so they set up camp and secured it to the best of their abilities, laying out their things in the garage next to a slew of components and a power armour station. Turner was slightly worried when they first entered to find the thing, but when it looked as though the place had been abandoned for quite some time she relaxed. The last thing they needed was for someone covered in head to toe in power armour knocking on the door in the middle of the night (especially if it wasn’t Riddik).

Turner found herself in the comfort only fancy lad snack cakes could bring, and ate through two boxes of them before Hancock stole the rest away. The ghoul’s excuse was she would regret it come later, and not that he wanted them for himself.

She didn’t miss him stuffing his face with the sweets not much later.

Nick was somewhere outside the confines of the gas station, probably enjoying the quiet night brought. The wind might have been terrible, but she supposed the cold hardly bothered a synth. It had picked up not long after the sun set, and for a moment she worried for him. It was short-lived worry, but worry nonetheless.

Turner convinced herself it was completely unfounded, no matter how much it lingered in her mind. Her legs itched to get moving, to go outside and check on him, if only to see if he was nearby and alright.

She wanted to see if he was alright and nothing more. Simple, Turner told herself.

Standing from her stool, she made her way to the door and quietly opened it. The wind whistled through the opening just long enough for Hancock to notice, but he said nothing from his spot, curled up on his bedroll, too comfortable to move.

Turner pulled her coat close and looked about the destroyed pumps of the station, not spying the synth anywhere. He must have been somewhere nearby, or at least she hoped. It wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest if he went out on his own to find another tape.

Old leaves and grass matted under her shoes as she wandered into the middle of the road and looked both ways. The night made it hard to see, even with the moon nearly full, and she almost missed the familiar profile of Nick just a short ways away. He stood overlooking the hills to the east at the edge of the road, next to the guard railing, two yellow dots in the darkness.

The synth looked as though he was lost in contemplation and didn’t bother to acknowledge Turner as she approached, even as her shoes padded on the road. “Hey.” She saluted and came to a stop, the wind whipping her jacket every which way. Pulling her hood up to cover her ears, she waited for him to respond.

And yet, it was like Nick hadn’t heard her, his eyes trained out on something in the distance, perhaps on the glowing plot that was Diamond City. “Hey, Nick?” This time she stepped closer and pulled on his sleeve, which seemed to do the trick.

Nick snapped to attention suddenly, his eyes going wide before turning to face her in shock. “Sorry, kid. Got to thinkin’ for a second.” He blinked his eyes rapidly, though Turner couldn’t imagine why, and shook his head. It was almost like he had stopped functioning, or timed-out, the way he stared so blankly. Or maybe the detective had been telling the truth and just got lost in thought.

Either way, Turner stood at his side and looked out to the hills with him. And in the quiet that night brought, they stayed that way for several minutes. Up until Nick realized it was going on midnight and she wasn’t asleep. “Becoming a night owl, aren’t you? You’re not tired?”

“I am.” Turner admitted, and felt the pull of sleep begging her to return inside. But a little white lie looked to be better. “Hancock’s snoring makes it hard. You’d think we brought a Brahmin along with us.”

“Well, if he’s a Brahmin, I say we load up on supplies at the next trader. He can handle it.” Nick angled his hat toward the wind as it threatened to be blown from his head, the fedora now sitting crooked on his crown. He paused and gave a lopsided smile, “I’m glad I’m finally getting to do something about Winter. I’ve been going over the possibilities.”

“Like what?” Turner seated herself on the guard rail and watched him, his eyes aglow.

“You spend as much time as me awake, it could be just about anything.” He took a seat next to her, the cold of the railing not bothering him a bit. “Like, what if we manage to find the tapes, and Winter gets the upper hand? What if we manage to get into that vault of his only to find him dead or gone?” Nick hadn’t let any scenario pass him by, and he had been preparing himself for the hopeful confrontation with the withered mob boss. A laugh escaped him, “I won’t lie when I say I’ve been practicing my lines.”

“A monologue? Really?” Turner couldn’t help but chuckle. “Do you do a voice when you say them? Like the Silver Shroud?”

“That’ll be the day.” Nick wanted to light himself a cigarette, but with the way the wind was blowing he knew the thing wouldn’t catch a light even if he covered it.

“What’re you going to do after it’s all over? Go back to your desk job?” Turner shoved his shoulder, and in response the synth gave way.

“I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing -- so yes, return to my desk job. The boring life of a private eye.” Even jokingly, Nick couldn’t stand the idea of sitting behind a desk all day. He’d gather dust waiting for another client. “I’ll keep doing it until I fall apart, I guess.”

“We’ll just have to keep the duct tape and spare parts close, then. Frankenstein you together.” Turner’s eyes shifted to Nick’s exposed hand and then to the patches that littered his coat. “Get you a new coat and a big hat.”

“I’m surprised you know what Frankenstein is. Don’t know Napoleon, but you know Frankenstein.”

“I saw it in Arlington library before the scribes took it. Only got to read a couple of pages before they said it was too delicate to be handled by some ‘grease monkey’.” A particularly strong wind blew past them and bit straight through Turner’s coat, ripping the hood from her head. She threw it back on in a flash and tucked it low over her eyes, pulling the draw strings out until it sat tighter around her face.

“This mug’s gonna fall off one day.” Nick replied, standing. “Don’t know how approachable I’ll be then, even in Diamond City.” He nodded for her to stand and follow, making their way from the road side to stand in the shadow of the Red Rocket.

“Then we’ll get you a scarf, too. I’d still come to see you, give you tips from Deacon.” Turner only realized what she said a minute after she said it. “I mean, I’d see you because we’re in Diamond City now.”

“We’re practically neighbors. We can rig ourselves some cans and a string, and gossip.”

Standing out of the way of the wind, Turner and Nick stared out at the expanse of hills rolling down from the station, the Commonwealth coloured a dark blue in the moonlight. Despite how tired she was, she didn’t want to leave the synth just yet. Deep down in her gut, something gnawed at her, a tingling she couldn’t quiet explain.

Especially after her small slip-up.

And for a few more minutes, they stood in silence and watched the clouds roll across the night sky at a fevered pace. The dead woods around them creaked as they swayed, underbrush rolling about across the ground.

Nick kicked at a bramble that caught at his pants and sent it continuing on down the road, content with their spot being unspoiled. Away from the wind, he could finally light himself a cigarette, but he found the urge was gone.

“This case you’re doin’. The Winter thing.” Turner began cryptically, and leant back against the wall, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. “I wish I could get revenge like you, against Maxson, Riddik, the Brotherhood.” Nick’s eyes trained on her as she spoke, glowing in the shadows. “For what they did to Metro, the HQ, Ticon. But with them and the Institute…”

After the teleporter was built, what had they hoped to do with it? Sure, they had access into the Institute at that point, but not a single one of them knew what lay beyond, or what would happen when they entered. It might be a death trap in the making, and there the Railroad was, building a relay in -- Turner didn’t even know where they would build it. Hopefully not within Diamond City’s walls. She was so caught up in the now and then that she didn’t even think about what lay later down the line.

“I… have some things I’ve been thinking about.” Turner admitted, and turned to lean on her shoulder and face him so the wind wouldn’t carry her voice. “Even since I told you about Metro.” Suddenly, she fixed her gaze on the ground, too afraid to look at Nick. He didn’t say anything in response and waited with baited breath for her to continue. “I still miss him, but it doesn’t hurt like it used to. It’s been a over a year now, and ever since--”

“It’ll never stop hurtin’, kid. I know.” Nick avoided the temptation to put a hand on her shoulder, and instead flexed his fingers at his side.

“You guys made me feel better about the whole thing. You and Hancock both.” And Deacon, too, but the big, goofy “older brother” helped in keeping her mind off things in general. In telling Nick about her relationship with a Gen 3, about not caring what he was, she was able to alleviate a weight that had sat on her chest for some time. And in Hancock she found a familiar reprieve, a comfort in someone the Brotherhood would rather see dead, the clockwork detective included.

Turner kicked her foot back and forth and sucked her lips into a line. “I guess what I’m trying to say is,” Without another thought, she took a step forward and stood on her toes. Grabbing hold of the lapels of Nick’s coat, she pulled him down just a little lower to place a light kiss against his lips.

As quickly as it appeared, it vanished, and Turner took a step back. “Thank you.” Her eyes never left the ground even as she took another step back, and then another, up until she stood at the corner. And with face a deep scarlet and eyes downcast, she blurted “Night” and disappeared.

Nick stood in stunned silence and listened as the door closed behind her. He was left standing stunned and dumbfounded out in the wind.

And in that silence, he began to think.

\---

Up next!

What will Riddik find as they scour the tomb that is the Circuitboard? And with nearly all the Winter tapes in hand, will Nick truly be ready to face the Mob Boss once and for all? Turner worries she may have overstepped her bounds after her confession -- will their friendship last, or after everything is said and done will it be time to call it quits?

Stay tuned for Chapter 16: The Broken Code!


	16. The Broken Code

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the Monday post! I got so busy with school and work, I got burnt out! @0@
> 
> Don't be afraid to comment! I love hearing from you guys! I wouldn't have come this far if it weren't for you!

\---

Nick sat outside the Red Rocket throughout the night, only realizing he’d done so when the first flashes of the sun blinded him.

The last thing he expected from the hard headed Turner was a kiss, as short lived as it was. Perhaps he was merely over-thinking things in his ample time, maybe it was a glitch in his subroutines and he’d imagined it all. Or maybe it was just her way of saying “thank you”.

Regardless, the way Turner turned tail and ran after the fact only cemented the idea Nick didn’t know why she’d done it.

Figuring he’d sat long enough, Nick stood and stretched, his joints having locked up in his concentrated sit. Maybe it would be for the best if he acted like nothing happened, play stupid as it were. Avoid any and all complication and awkwardness, if not for her then for him… and maybe even Hancock.

The ghoul’s relation to her only raised more questions than answers. Certainly, Turner was allowed to do what she pleased, with whom or whatever she wanted. She needn’t be tied to the archaic idea of a single relationship, and he wasn’t about to tell her otherwise.

Now Nick was definitely over-thinking things. The easiest thing to do was to pretend like nothing had transpired.

Bad thing for the synth detective. He hardly forgot.

\---

Over the next few days, their ragtag group continued across the Commonwealth, zipping east and west, north and south as one tape after another was collected. Turner said nothing about what had happened between her and Nick, as was to be expected, though the synth wasn’t oblivious to her newly gathered distance from him.

It suited Nick just fine, of course, but she hardly even joked with him or Hancock like their usual. Instead, whenever possible, she either put Hancock betwixt them or walked behind the group at a slower pace. The ghoul, whether he knew it or not, smiled nonetheless as they traversed outer Boston and didn’t pry into whatever was bothering her.

No more than a single tape remained to collect at the end of the first week, and being so close to ending the Winter case once and for all Nick grew nervous. If he could shake with excitement and anticipation, he would.

Once more, the three of them found themselves deep in the city, far into the depths of mutant and raider territories. The air smelt of sulfur and smoke, and somewhere nearby the sound of gunfire could be heard, and the bellow of a mutant was far too close for comfort.

Turner walked under the overhang  of the two close buildings, to her left and old shopping centre and to her right an abandoned police station left open to the elements. Dodging a shopping cart and odd collection of Gunner barricades, she mindlessly swung her bag without thought. If luck was on their side, the Gunners would have been gone for quite some time.

The buildings created a dreadful wind tunnel, the brisk air blasting through Turner’s coat with no chance of letting up. She hadn’t known the exact date -- Nick probably knew -- but she imagined it must have been around December by then. Soon, Diamond City would be decorated in lights for some archaic tradition she still didn’t fully grasp. A beautiful one, albeit strange.

Maybe Deacon would dress up again in his too-large red suit, maybe put on his ghoul guise once more and leap from rooftop to rooftop with those damnable sunglasses of his.

The sound of Nick coming up the steps broke her from her thoughts, his exposed hand pushing a metal cart from his way with a loud scrape on the pavement. His eyes avoided her as he tipped his hat and headed inside without a word, disappearing into the small collection of cells.

From her side, Hancock made a “psst” noise to get her attention, nudging her in the side with his arm. “You two have a fight or somethin’?” he whispered, and stood in the way of the wind. “You guys barely spoke the last couple of stops.”

Turner’s gaze shifted to her hands as they fiddled with the ends of her sleeves, “No, nothin’ like that.” She shifted from one foot to the other nervously, “We just had a talk, is all.”

“Musta been a hell of a talk.”

Inside the station, Nick looked about through the cells one by one, looking for the familiar orange and white. He could easily hear Turner and Hancock outside as they tried their best to be quiet, and didn’t miss the way she dodged the ghoul’s question.

It wasn’t exactly a lie, and he understood why she stepped around the details. The air surrounding it made it tough to talk for the both of them, almost as though one waited for the other to do something.

Nick glanced up from the desk he stood behind to watch Turner shift uncomfortably under Hancock’s questioning, locking eyes with her for a fraction of a second before she pulled away quickly.

Things were certainly taking a turn for the worst.

The detective’s hand skimmed across the desk unconsciously, pushing aside through a layer of dust a few folders tinged yellow and brown with time. The familiar ridged plastic of a holotape met his fingertips, and with a relieved smile he lifted it to his face.

Finally, after all those years, the last tape, the last clue into Eddie Winter’s bunker sat in his hands. Shoulders slumping with a sigh, he tucked the tape into his breast pocket and made his way to exit the police station.

The first to notice him was Hancock, a grin stretched across his scarred features, and nudged Turner just enough that she would take notice of the synth.

She looked up worriedly as Nick adjusted his coat back into place, her mouth hanging open as though she wanted to speak.

“I’ve got the last tape.” Nick announced not nearly as excitedly as she expected, the high collar of his coat fluttering about his ears from the wind. “We might be able to make it to the station before nightfall if we hurry.”

“Then let’s get moving. Places like this ain’t exactly my style.” Hancock stepped away and into the street, almost purposefully leaving the girl and the synth alone.

With Turner and Nick left to their lonesome, the former stammered for a moment before gaining the latter’s attention with a hand on his arm. “Nick.” Came a low whisper, quiet enough that the ghoul ahead of them couldn’t hear. “I wanted to say sorry.” The detective’s luminescent eyes shifted to her, veiled only slightly by the brim of his hat. “For the other night.”

Nick blinked slowly, speaking nearly as quietly as she, “It’s alright, kid. Don’t worry about it.” The words were as much for her as they were for himself, “Threw me for a bit of a loop, though.” One side of his mouth quirked into a smile, “Can’t say I’m used to it.”

Turner didn’t seem convinced by his acceptance of her apology, and didn’t raise her gaze from the uneven ground beneath her feet. When she didn’t respond, his attention turned fully toward her.

“I meant it.” She said finally, a light red on her freckled cheeks. Turner did indeed mean what she said, meant what she did. Hancock helped her through a dark time in her life, and Nick -- someone she, admittedly, barely knew -- was just the person she needed to get the weight of Metro off her chest. And now she wondered worriedly that she’d ruined whatever friendship they’d built up with one, simple kiss.

Turner swallowed hard and stared up through her lashes with trepidation. What she was met with was an unreadable look on Nick’s face, his features fallen and nearly as downtrodden as she. Immediately, she regretted what she’d done more deeply than when she’d actually done it.

Up ahead, Hancock listened over his shoulder, terribly curious as to what had caused such a rift between the girl and the synth. But he stayed on the path and far from their conversation.

“After all this is done, we can go back to Diamond City, and I’ll go to the Railroad and you go back to your agency. Deal?” Turner extended her hand, weak and limply, and waited.

And waited.

Her fingers dug into her palm when she realized Nick hadn’t pulled his hand from his coat pocket, hadn’t bothered to pry his eyes from the road before him. The handshake would have hurt, of course, but Turner hadn’t expected the silence to hurt more.

Her nails bit into her palm as her hand fell back to her side listlessly.

When Hancock looked back again, he found the space between Turner and Nick had grown by several feet. Neither of them talked, neither of them looking up from the road.

The ghoul had an inkling then of what had gone down, and picked up on that familiar uncomfortable silence. He knew it well.

And by the look on Nick’s face, so did he.

\---

Andrew Station was a dilapidated mess. Half the building had fallen, quite literally, into disarray and the chatter of unknowing raiders could be heard past the junk fence that surrounded the whole of the place.

Turner, Nick, and Hancock hid behind the fallen wall of an old brick building and watched the glow of firelight bounce off the walls, the comforting orange a terrible ruse.

“How many do you think are in there?” Turner voiced her worries, her Institute pistol held tightly in her hand. Admittedly, she had every right to be worried. Nick’s long-time-coming journey was coming to a head, and there in their way must have been a dozen raiders hidden in and around the station. Surely, they had faced enough challenges on their way to gathering all the tapes, but there at the end the danger felt all the more real.

Hancock adjusted his hat and fiddled with his switchblade, ignoring the gun at his hip completely. “About six or so outside. They’re high as shit.” A grin laced his words, “Shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“It’s inside that worries me.” Nick interjected. There was a certain air of anxiety about him, partly from the girl at his side and the other from the general unknown of it all. “The bunker door is a ways in, and we haven’t got a clue as to how many of these guys are hanging around.” Flipping the cylinder of his pipe pistol open, he counted his bullets. More were stashed away in his pockets, and yet he was sure they weren’t enough.

“Gonna have to take them by surprise.” Turner concluded as she pursed her lips and pondered. There were several ways of going about the situation: take the raiders outside by surprise and hopefully mow down the rest inside, find another way in that didn’t involve sticking out their necks, or wait and see what the raiders did through the night.

Finding another way would prove futile, she thought. Clambering around in the darkness would only attract attention, and waiting would simply ruin the opportune moment they had at hand. “I can act as a decoy.” Turner said with finality and stood, her head poking out from behind the brick wall to scope the area.

Both Nick and Hancock stared with their jaws nearly on the ground, a simultaneous “what?” leaving them. Their hands shot out and took either sleeve, dragging her back down behind the safety of the wall.

“I go up there, say I want to join, distract them while you two come up from behind. Easy.” Turner announced it so matter-of-factly that the ghoul and synth barely believed what they’d heard.

“You got a deathwish, sunshine? Ain’t happenin’.” Hancock tried to pull Turner back down behind the wall even as she climbed over it, tumbling head over heels to the ground. But she didn’t relent, and slipped away from his grasp easily. She had put her foot down quite literally and made her way across the dead grass of the curbside.

Without warning or confirmation, she made her way across the dark street toward the junk fence. Her pistol sat heavily in her coat pocket as she approached, and from behind she felt the stares of Nick and Hancock burning into the back of her coat. Try as they might, they weren’t going to change her mind. Call it dumb, call it brazen, but Turner found it hard to care at that moment.

Nick was flabbergasted and watched as the diminutive girl waltzed up to the fence, making his way over the wall with Hancock in tow. Turner could hear the two of them padding along the pavement, hardly discrete, sneaking their way up and behind the station to come about the back way as she’d thought out.

Rounding the fence, she stood at a concrete barricade and peered inside. Three raiders were out for the count, already asleep from a drug-induced stupor. Three others were mostly awake, but they swayed in their seats dangerously.

One of the raiders noticed Turner in the firelight and perked up, the girl’s figure shifting and wavering in his high. No one could be so stupid as to approach raiders all on their lonesome, on their home turf -- it could only be a hallucination.

Turner’s heart beat painfully in her chest as she trotted across the way, tripping on her own two feet clumsily before catching herself. The raider squinted at her, unsure if she was actually real or just a figment of his imagination. He played with the grip of his shotgun, the barrel scraping the ground as it looked almost too heavy for him to lift in such a daze.

“You lost, little girl?” he slurred, still unsure if Turner was even real. One of the other raiders perked up, her uneven pigtails falling into her eyes.

“I came here to join, actually.” Turner lied, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. The now familiar weight of the pistol sat in her palm, ready to be used at any moment.

The two semi-alert raiders laughed, the man slapping the chest of his still-asleep fellow with the back of his hand. “Are you for fuckin’ real? Look at this shit, Gunny.”

The awakened raider attempted to shake the drugged sleep from his eyes, but the blurs simply wouldn’t dissipate.

“Little girl wants to play with the big boys?” The lady raider stood from her seat. Turner hoped Nick and Hancock were ready and waiting. Being this close to the dregs of the wasteland was one of the last things she wanted to do, and yet she brought it upon herself. “Listen here, runt. Give is what you got, and maybe we’ll let you leave with your ass intact.”

The raider circled her, reeking of booze and jet, a fetid combination that made Turner’s toes curl. The raider came in front of her again, hand outstretched and waiting for the small agent to comply.

The sound of crunching leaves in the darkness behind the other raiders was the only indication (she hoped) that Nick and Hancock were in place. And with a pop of her lips, Turner pulled from her pocket the Institute pistol and fired at point-blank range into the raider’s head.

With a gurgled scream, the raider fell back and convulsed before she stilled on the concrete. Her two now-fully-awake cohorts stiffened and rose, but before they could retaliate a hail of gun fire filled the air.

From behind the remaining raiders, Nick and Hancock entered and shot with measured efficiency, downing three of the raiders before they had a chance to retaliate. The ghoul was so efficient, in fact, he opted for his knife -- a far more personal style he’d come to enjoy.

Turner spun and shot at another raider, watching as he slumped back to his bedroll with a rattle in his lungs. The move was grizzly and barbaric to be sure, but she hadn’t the time to wonder if the raider would have fled or given up. “Should” easily outweighed “could” or “would” at that moment.

Nick downed the last raider before taking a head count. Six raiders were gone and yet who knew how many remained inside the station.

Replacing the bullets in his gun, the synth looked at Turner worriedly. She didn’t seem any worse for wear, and yet the change in her behaviour worried him. 

“You alright, kid?” Nick asked from behind Turner as they circled around the rotunda to the escalator entrance. The downward slope was riddled with bottles and spent paraphernalia, and the synth had trouble in keeping his footing.

“I’m fine.” Turner’s answer came too quickly, too forced, and immediately she regretted the edge to her words when something akin to hurt flashed across Nick’s eyes. Now wasn’t the time to ponder if she’d ruined their friendship, as short as it may have been. When they were out of danger, then she could worry.

“Like a walk in the park.” Hancock patted her shoulder as they descended into the darkness of the terminal, the gate at the entrance to the station barely standing at its post.

“An industrial park.” The clockwork detective attempted a joke to goad the uncharacteristically quiet Turner. It hardly worked.

Instead, she pressed on into the station and down the stairs into the awaiting firelight. Turner knew her sour mood was uncalled for, and it pained her to think she was acting in such a way.

Hancock took a moment to fall back beside Nick, piecing together what had happened to cause such a rift between the two. “Sunshine said the two of you had a talk.” He began, the blade of his knife aimed toward the tile as he walked in tandem with the synth. “I’m tickled into thinkin’ it got a little personal.”

Nick didn’t want to elaborate, afraid of how the ghoul would respond, worried that the information was a tad too personal to share without permission on both his and Turner’s parts.

But the Mayor of Goodneighbor was sharp. He’d already began to piece things together, and it would only be a matter of time before he figured it all out.

Up ahead, Turner gingerly took the steps one by one, peering out from behind the banister to spy the rail station. No other raiders looked to be lurking about, though she was hardly thorough in her search. If they were lucky, only a few more remained unsuspecting of what had happened topside.

She gripped the handle of her pistol tightly and waited for Nick and Hancock to join her, only continuing when they were within earshot. A look sat on Hancock’s face, the type of long stare that only appeared when something unknown came to light. Nick had obviously told the ghoul what had happened between him and Turner, and the ghoul looked neither angry nor surprised.

Instead, he was almost smirking at the reveal.

Hancock’s smile widened as he walked behind her, his onyx eyes curled in amusement. There in front of him, that hard-headed girl, Turner, had feelings for the synth, and yet there she was trying to hide away from it all.

He understood then.

Hancock might have had himself some fun if the current situation were any different. Later, he told himself. Later, and he’d toy the other side of the story from her. See how the pieces fit together. Until then, though.

An eerie silence filled the subway platform as the three of them stood in the desolate terminal. The ancient intercom chimed every few seconds or so before shorting out and attempting its message again, some automated system that had corrupted beyond repair ages ago.

Turner wasn’t particularly fond of subways, the ones she’d delved into back in the Capital more than enough for one lifetime (and yet she remembered with a particular fondness how she’d met Metro in one). She lowered her gun for a second and spied back over her shoulder to Nick and Hancock, who were now searching about on their own for any raiders that remained.

Hancock had his own method of searching through the dust and layers of debris: kick at it until it moved or fell apart, rinse and repeat. Nick, on the other hand, never looked to lower his pistol. Instead, he warily checked behind corners and tiptoed about. Turner almost laughed at how bright his eyes were in the dim terminal -- the synth stuck out like a sore thumb in more ways than one. She figured he was oblivious to it all, just as she was oblivious to the fact that he caught her watching.

Hancock broke the unease by knocking away a few loose boards from a door, noting the darkness beyond the dirtied window in its frame. “So, how far’s this bunker? Gotta be in pretty deep for a guy to last this long.” He opened the door with a heave and stared into the dark hallway beyond.

“It’s a ways in.” Nick broke away when Turner all but scurried across the subway platform to escape him. “It stays like this, probably another floor or two, maybe an hour if you’re up to scrounge.” He walked across the broken tile and stared down the long expanse of the subway system, noting halfway down the line the roof had collapsed atop the cars. He imagined, back during war, that even if someone were to survive the bombings a collapsed rail line and radiation would be enough to finish the job.

The synth turned back to Turner and Hancock, but only found the girl standing awkwardly in the center of the platform, the ghoul nowhere to be found. She must have been thinking of something as her eyes seemed unfocused, her feet sat slightly skewed so they pointed toward one another, and her face relaxed into something not even Nick had seen in a while. And his gaze moved from the healed, yet scarred, cut on her forehead to the mostly faded bruises on her neck, he found himself just as unfocused as she.

“Kid… Turner.” He began, and even though he tried to keep quiet his voice reverberated through the terminal.

That alone was enough to break her from her thoughts, and she snapped to attention instantly, her eyes going slightly wide. “Huh?” came her innocent enough reply, as she’d been caught off-guard by Nick using her name. Not kid, not sweetheart -- Turner.

“Listen, I was thinking…” but before Nick could get his thoughts into words, a single gunshot filled the air. The noise was like thunder, quick and frightening, and it echoed through the station and deep into Turner’s chest.

Where was Hancock?

She raced to the doorway the ghoul had disappeared into, and was pulled out of the way at the last second as several more shots were fired at the door. Nick held her out of the way and peered deep into the darkness of the hall, able to see far better than the girl he held tightly by the arms.

There at the end of the long, tiled hallway stood a heavily armored raider, a .45 pointed straight toward the literal light at the end of the tunnel. And there at his feet was Hancock, the ghoul curled into himself on the floor. It didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going on.

With his right hand, Nick shot into the hall, grazing the raider’s arm. A yell echoed down the way back to him and Turner, and the girl took the chance to jump to the other side of the doorway. “Where’s Hancock?” she asked feverishly, unable to see much of anything in the dark.

“Down.” Came Nick’s simple reply. He couldn’t say any more as he didn’t know any more. The ghoul could have been injured, mortally so, and he’d have no way of knowing. As much as he wanted to be a comfort at that moment, he didn’t have the courage. “Down at the end, there’s a raider. Armored. If you aim up a bit--” a shot stopped him from speaking momentarily, “you might hit him. Got it?”

Turner nodded and readied herself, hearing the raider swear up and down as his voice echoed through the hall. She and Nick aimed into the darkness and fired, his aim more precise than hers, and waited for a sign that their shots had met their marks. Nick shot again and fell back to hide behind the wall, another few bullets rocketing toward them.

The tile of the corner near Turner chipped and fell away, the raider’s bullets far too close for comfort. Obviously, their shots weren’t doing much against their armored opponent, but they hadn’t any time to waste. In each flash of her gun, she could almost see the outline of the raider at the end and Hancock on the floor. And with each flash, her aim grew better.

Turner and Nick shot together into the hall, and with a gurgled yell a weight fell to the floor. Not caring if another threat stood in the dark, she raced inside toward the fallen ghoul, Nick right behind her.

Though she could hardly see, Turner could make out Hancock curled into himself, a dark pool just under his side. He grasped at the bullet wound just under his ribs, his face contorted into stifled pain even as she knelt down to help him. “Been a while since I’ve been shot.” The ghoul played, though his pain was evident in his voice. “Can’t say I’d take it over a hangover.”

Turner’s hands shook as she opened her bag to search for a stimpak, and in the dark she struggled to make out one thing from another. “Relax, sunshine. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” The ghoul coughed, wet and strained. The noise hadn’t helped in the slightest as she continued, her hand clutching for a brief moment at the familiar softness of the teddy bear she had hidden away inside.

Stilling, Turner felt the cold of metal slide across the top of her hand, and realized only then Nick could easily see the stimpak sitting at the bottom of her bag. He pulled it out and removed the cap from the end, unsure of what to do with it.

Hancock took the initiative, and with a weak chuckle he took the stimpak from the perplexed synth. With one swift jab, the needle stuck into his stomach, and immediately the rush of medicine went to work.

The ghoul was hardly at one hundred percent, but he sat up weakly all the same. His hand still clutched to the blood-dyed fabric of his frock, his hat somewhere in the corner of the dark hall, and he grinned at the worried look on Turner’s face. “Throw me in a puddle somewhere and let me soak up the rads. I’ll be good as new in no time. Maybe grow a third leg.” He laughed with a wink to the girl, hardly expecting her to punch his shoulder.

Turner still clung to the arm of the teddy bear in her bag, finding comfort in its familiar softness. Losing Hancock would have been the proverbial nail in the coffin for her, and there beside her in the darkness was Nick.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And with the three of them alive even in the dark of the old subway, surrounded by the death and mayhem only the Commonwealth could bring, Turner felt… glad.

And in that small reprieve, that short moment of relief, she felt it.

Metal digits waited next to hers, just barely touching, cold metal ghosting against warm flesh.

In that moment, Turner relaxed, and felt Nick take her hand.

\---

Up next!

Riddik in the Circuitboard?! What goodies with the Brotherhood Paladin stumble across? And standing before the door to Eddie Winter’s bunker, is Nick ready to face the man who has haunted him for years? And will Turner accept that maybe, just maybe, Nick feels the same?

Tune in next time for:

Chapter 17: Winter’s End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna do some chapters for Far Harbor once it's out! Tell me what you think!


	17. Winter's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a week off! School has kept me so busy, along with work and the release of Far Harbor!
> 
> Messages or comments really do mean the world to me, and help me keep going! Please don't be afraid to leave a comment!

\---

Deep in the belly of Andrew Station, Turner, Nick, and Hancock ambled their way into a secreted alcove. Leaning across both their shoulders, the ghoul was assisted along as he walked, or rather, limped. He hadn’t lost too much blood, but it was just enough that when he went to stand he stumbled back down to the floor with black spots in his eyes.

Despite Hancock’s want to keep going, he submitted to Turner’s order to stay put when they found a safe enough place to set him down.

“Homey, isn’t it?” Nick asked more than slightly sarcastically as they surveyed the wrecked room. It wasn’t much more than a large broom closet, but it would have to do for the time being.

They settled Hancock down on the floor even as he laughed and waved them off. The blood on his shirt and frock had yet to dry completely, and he shifted to find a more comfortable position against the tiled wall. “You two gonna be alright without me?” The ghoul chuckled and ran a hand across the hole in his frock, contemplating if making the joke that they would be getting the cleaning bill was in good taste or not. And yet he hadn’t really anyone to blame but himself. “Don’t wanna rain on your parade.”

Being this close to finally confronting Eddie Winter, Hancock knew Nick didn’t want to stop for anything, couldn’t stop even as a friend was “ailing”. And he couldn’t rightly blame the synth.

Nick stood near to the door, ready and waiting, his shoulders squared and his eyes trained on Turner as she knelt down to face Hancock.

“I’m more worried if you’ll be alright.” Turner stated, seated on her haunches, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Hancock gave a coy grin and a wink, his cheeks curling deviously, “I’ll be fine. Catch myself a few z’s, maybe find a nice corner to take a nap.” Turner rolled her eyes and batted his hat down so it obscured his vision, his smile remaining. “Let you and Nicky have some privacy.”

Turner felt a blush creep onto her cheeks and heard the clockwork detective behind her clear his throat (or at least simulate it). The ghoul hadn’t missed the stark clash of skin against metal back in the hall, saw how, for once, Turner said nothing and pulled away sheepishly -- dare he say flustered.

Let them have some alone time, Hancock thought. He’d have plenty of time later to play with them. And in better circumstances.

As Turner went to stand, Hancock pulled her back down by the collar. He rummaged for a moment through his coat pocket before producing his trusted knife. He twirled it several times through his fingers before grasping it by the sharpened blade. Placing the handle in Turner’s hand, he curled her fingers around it with his own, “You’re a shit shot, Sunshine. No offense.”

Turner pursed her lips and gave a quick raspberry, though she couldn’t deny the honesty of Hancock’s words. Nick chuckled at the door and opened it back into the hall, hand still waiting on the knob as he waited for the girl to follow.

“Yeah, well,” she paused and scrambled forward into her hands, the blade of the knife clacking against the floor, and gave the ghoul a quick peck to his cheek after tipping his hat up and out of the way, “Don’t have too much fun.”

Turner stood and brushed the dust off her pants and shins, slipping Hancock’s knife into her coat pocket for safe keeping. “Don’t worry about me. Just don’t forget I’m down here.” The ghoul warned playfully.

Heading out the door past Nick, Turner left the Hancock and detective alone. As she disappeared into the hall, the ghoul made a quick noise to get the synth’s attention. Remaining for a moment longer, Nick looked down to his companion on the floor.

“Keep an eye on her, alright?” the ghoul asked, and adjusted himself into a more comfortable position.

Nick tapped the brim of his hat with one metal digit and gave a lopsided smirk, “I’ll try to keep her out of trouble. Can’t guarantee anything.”

“After this is done, I wanna talk.” Hancock warned, but waved his hand dismissively when a look crossed the synth’s face, “Nothin’ bad. You got me?”

Nick knew immediately what the ghoul wished to speak about and gave only a simple nod of understanding. For now, the talk would have to wait, as they could hear Turner tapping her foot by the door.

Outside, Nick joined Turner in the quiet of the hall. All around them remnants of the old world assaulted their senses. Whether it was the posters, flyers, or old newspapers, the hall was filled with relics of the pre-war years. And somewhere in that deep dark of the old world waited Winter, and the two of them were all-too ready to dive in.

They walked down the hall silently, once again alone in their thoughts. “Are you ready?” Turner questioned to break the suffocating quiet, her shoulder brushing against Nick’s arm as they walked slowly at each other’s side.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” In his processor, Nick ran through Winter’s tapes one by one, subtle, quiet clicks emanating from him. A sequence of numbers appeared before his eyes, the very code needed to enter the bunker.

Turner listened to the low hum of the synth’s mind at work as he processed the information, and waited patiently. His luminescent eyes were trained forward in unbroken thought, ignoring the world around him.

After a minute, Nick’s eyes focused again and fell to the girl at his side, softening his gaze. There were so many things he had to go over in his head when it came to Turner. There was now a wordless admission between the two of them, a mutual… something. And Hancock had seen it all.

Not only would there be an inevitable talk with the ghoul, but no doubt Turner would come along. It was only fair she have a say.

Together, Turner and Nick descended deeper into the station until they came upon the foreboding height of a locked, reinforced door. Its metal hull was dented and rusted, and had obviously suffered an assault by a minigun at one point, and yet it remained firmly standing against the elements of zeitgeist.

But not for long.

Nick strode forward up to the keypad on the wall, more than a bit confidently, and drummed his fingers against the numbers lightly. Turner stood at his side to watch him slowly compress the numbers one by one, almost as if he was worried the code had been incorrect.

The orange glow of each button illuminated the crags and ridges of his exposed metal digits, signifying just how long and rough time had been getting to that very spot.

Turner contemplated spouting a number or two to throw him off, though she immediately hushed the thought. With one final number, the door emitted a low roar, a deep growl as the internal mechanisms whirred to life after so many years. A hiss followed as the first few inches of the door opened toward them, squealing loudly on its un-oiled hinges.

The two stepped back to allow the door to swing open fully, waiting for the noise to vanish before they continued. A rush of air raced past them and into the newly opened hall, stirring the dust and dirt on the floor that gradually transitioned from hard clay into linoleum.

Without preamble, Nick headed through the newly opened doorway with Turner in tow. Together, they walked from the unknown shadows into the comforting glow of what could have been called an abode at one point. The knickknacks and trinkets of days gone by dotted the walls and shelves, a number of faded pictures hung on the wall. An old television sat in the corner, the burned image of a stand-by card on its cracked screen, and a lamp, moth bitten and rotted, illuminated only half of the room.

Turner remained by Nick as they entered, peering over his shoulder into the scope of the bunker. And there, sat on the far end of the room in a busted chair was an aged ghoul, the magazine he must have read a million and one times dropped into his lap.

Silver hair and sagging features, scarred skin and almost inhuman blue eyes, Eddie Winter watched the two intruders enter his home. “So, after two hundred years, the Tin Man is the one who gets the door open.”

Winter was undeterred by their presence, leaning over the arm of the chair to pour himself a shot of bourbon. He downed it with a face and stood to place the shot glass back down on the wet bar, deep cracks echoing from his neck as he twisted his head about.

Nick stood stock still, testing the words he’d gone over in his head. Numerous monologues strung together nonsensically, witty one-liners and poorly timed jokes waited to be said. But the vengeful detective found his words were failing him.

If Turner hadn’t patted his back gently, Nick just might have gotten caught in a loop.

“And you brought Dorothy along, too.” Winter joked, “Where’s the Scarecrow, then?”

Nick stepped forward, his face contorted in growing anger and frustration, not only with himself but with the mob boss. “Enough, Winter.” Suddenly, his voice dropped deeper and more demanding than Turner had ever heard it. “Tell me, do you remember Jennifer Lands?”

A cross look passed over Winter’s visage as his hand stroked the gun holstered at his belt, his lips curling into a lopsided scowl. “Pretty girl. Shame what happened to her.” Icy blue eyes flicked to Turner for a second, and with a crooked smile the ghoul winked at her. Unaffected, she stood tall, knowing for certain the ancient mob boss was goading her. “What’s it to you?”

Nick took another step into Winter’s space, his pistol clenched tightly in his hand, “The name’s Nick Valentine. Maybe you remember that, too?”

Screwing his eyes into narrow slits, Winter stared the clockwork detective down. A heavy laugh left his belly, hearty and jovial, and with crossed arms he continued to laugh into the cramped room. “You ain’t Valentine, bot. That Dick wasn’t no robot. And he sure as hell,” He turned and took a deep swig from the burbon decanter, “Wasn’t runnin’ around pokin’ his nose in my business. Especially after his girl got dead. You ain’t nothin’ but a bot playin’ dress up.”

Turner wanted to step in and retort, and yet she felt it wasn’t her place. She didn’t miss, however, the way Nick’s shoulders shook, the way his hands clenched and jaw tightened.

“Maybe not, but I’ve got his memories, and your face is plastered all over them. I’m here to close the book on you, Winter.”

Quick despite his age, Winter drew his pistol and fired at Nick and Turner, firing two more times at the support pillar they hid behind. At that second, the synth regretted dragging the girl along, as he had to hold her in place by the sleeve as she went to stand and fire back.

Turner fell back onto her bottom with her Institute pistol clattering on the tile, and deeply frowning she eyed Nick down.

“You an’ your little girlfriend don’t know who you’re fuckin’ with!” Winter’s shoes could be heard clicking on the floor as he moved to get the two of them into view. “How ‘bout I pop her head, too, huh?”

Nick’s hand tightened around the fabric of Turner’s sleeve, and in a split second he released her to stand and fire back at Winter.

The shot nearly hit him, and struck the crystal decanter. A thousand glass shards rained to the floor, and the ghoul shot in return. The bullet grazed Nick’s shoulder and sent him teetering back behind the pillar. Luckily, much unlike what happened in the old Railroad HQ, his coolant lines remained intact. “Shit.” He cursed, and flipped open the cylinder of his pistol.

Sensing Nick was in dire need of assistance, Turner poked out from behind their cover and fired several times toward Winter, hitting him in his arm. The blue laser fire burned at his scarred skin, making him growl in pain before firing.

When his counter-attack ceased, Turner could hear the sound of Winter reloading and took the chance to fire once more when he was exposed. What she hadn’t expected to see when she peeked out from the pillar was the face of ghoul right before her.

Winter’s gun slammed down across the top of her head, sending stars scattering across her vision. Nick watched as she doubled back, knocked off balance, and was rendered weaponless in mere seconds by the ghoul. Try as she might to fight him off through the miasma that swam through her head, he yanked the pistol from her fingers and held it to her temple.

Nick could only watch as Winter curled his arm around Turner’s neck and held her before him, her own pistol now aimed at her temple. “You fucked up, bot. Now,” Slowly but surely, the ghoul turned him and the girl back toward the door, the pistol remaining firm against her skin, “You’re gonna let me go, and I won’t have to paint the walls with your little friend here.”

Nick froze, his eyes wide and unreadable. There was something akin to burning rage in those golden optics at the very sight of Turner rendered nearly helpless in Winter’s hold, and he could only watch as the mob boss took a step back toward freedom.

Turner wanted to shake the fog from her head, but worried about the barrel aimed squarely at her temple. And though Winter held her neck like a snake with a radrabbit, one of her hands laid upon the damaged flesh of his arm, the other slowly inching down toward her coat pocket. She could see Nick through the haze as he stood motionless against the pillar, his pistol aimed at the floor. He wouldn’t dare try to fire at the ghoul, even if it meant ending him.

The outline of Hancock’s knife stood out to Turner’s probing fingers, and opening her eyes wide as she was less than carefully pulled back toward the door she motioned down to her pocket. Nick understood instantly, but that crazed look never left his eyes.

“You got that, bot? I’ll let your girl go, but you move an inch.” Winter let the words fall from his lips unsaid, and with each breath Turner cringed at the putrid smell of bourbon and rot. The ghoul was nearly to the hall now with her in his hold, her feet slipping against the dirt dusted across the floor. “You hear that, doll? Huh?” he nudged her chin up and pressed the barrel against her temple once, twice--

On the third time, Turner lurched forward, her head moving away from the barrel of the gun and slamming Hancock’s knife deep into Winter’s stomach. A shot went off too close for comfort and burst against the wall as she stumbled forward, yanking the knife out of the ghoul’s diaphragm along with her.

And though her head ached, she watched Winter double back and try to stem the flow of blood now dyeing the front of his shirt and trousers. “You little bitch!” he coughed and raised her pistol even as he leant against the wall. But Nick was faster, easily sidestepping to put Turner behind him to shoot the ghoul square in the chest.

The shot hadn’t killed Winter, and immobilized he fell to the floor. Blood flecked across his lips as he raised the pistol to shoot. But when he pulled the trigger, only silence greeted him.

The ghoul had no witty last words and only grinned with blood-stained teeth as Nick fired again, this time felling him.

As Winter fell back motionless to the floor, Nick watched down the barrel of his gun until the ghoul fully stilled.

It was over. The original Nick, Jenny, everyone Eddie Winter had ever wronged were finally avenged. And though, Nick wanted to smile, wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, he felt a burden weighing on his chest.

Part of the weight lifted, however, as he felt a hand gently lay on his shoulder.

Turning around with his hand limp at his side, pistol falling to the floor, Nick let Turner embrace him. And in that comforting hold, he reciprocated, pulling her closer and tighter than he’d ever done before.

They stood that way for what must have been only minutes, but to Turner it felt like a lifetime. It didn’t matter how long she had to stay, her hands clutching at the worn fabric of Nick’s coat. And it didn’t matter how badly her head ached, how each heart beat sent a surge of pain to her temples.

What mattered was Nick finally got his revenge after two-hundred years, was able to stop Winter from ever plaguing Boston again, and didn’t lose those closest to him in the process. It didn’t matter if the two of them now stood in a time capsule, surrounded by the old world and a fallen mob boss.

What mattered was that they made it through everything the Commonwealth threw at them. What mattered was that they now found comfort, the calm after a storm, in one another despite everything that happened.

Turner stood on her toes and kissed Nick lightly on the cheek before burying her face in his collar. He only laughed quietly and bowed his head into the crook of her neck.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He offered, his words muffled by the fabric of her coat, his arms still clinging to her like a rock. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

\---

Up Next!

What happens when the Institute finds Turner and her merry misfits as they make their way back to Diamond City? Outnumbered and outmatched, what happens when the synths only have eyes for the small Railroad agent?

Tune in next time for Chapter 18: Taken!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have ideas planned out for Far Harbor!
> 
> I don't know if I'll add the chapters to this story, or make one of its own, but I can't wait to get to it! 
> 
> Check me out on Tumblr! esuerc.tumblr.com!


	18. Taken!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus! I was busy with finals for my advanced classes @w@ I got A's all across the board!  
> \---  
> I wanna thank all of you who commented and left kudos, especially L.C.! You really kept me going when I needed the encouragement!   
> \---  
> Also, Danny Shorago, Hancock's voice actor, replied to one of my messages about wanting to fight him with a chainsaw. http://esuerc.tumblr.com/post/146321540367/if-i-go-missing-i-want-you-all-to-witness-me

\---

The damaged doors of the Circuitboard creaked open, pushing aside a collection of boxes and upturned furniture. It was obvious the Institute hadn’t bothered with the front door, as they were far more interested in taking the Railroad by surprise and virtually appearing out of thin air.

Riddik stepped into the vacuum-like tomb, a rush of air entering the halls of the would-be HQ for once in so long. An enamel vase crunched under the Paladin’s foot, breaking the infinite silence of the halls, echoing into the remains of what used to be the Railroad’s safe house.

Nine and Eleven tread inside behind their leader with far more trepidation that the Paladin -- their weapons had been drawn long before the doors had even opened. Neither of them knew what they would find within, and were ever hopeful the Institute hadn’t taken all they could.

Where was the sport in that? What could the Institute possibly want with the less than exemplary technology the Railroad possessed?

Regardless, Riddik strode down the hallowed halls of the Circuitboard, their chin held high and their cape coiled into their right hand, their left loosely curled around the grip of their powered sledge.

Another set of doors stood before them, and with a simple kick Riddik forced them open and against the walls, bits of plaster and asbestos ceiling tile falling to the floor. A bulletin board fell from the wall almost comically as they waited for the dust to settle, dropping onto its edge before tipping over and rattling against the floor.

The scope of the Circuitboard now lay at Riddik’s feet, a grand room with a high ceiling, and two symmetrical staircases to either side of the command center, a large room overlooking the whole of the atrium above them.

Destroyed terminals dotted the silent hall, several of them thrown to the floor to litter the tiled mural with electronic components and keyboard keys. Eleven and Nine strode in behind Riddik and gazed up at the size of the room, the latter of the two giving a hum of interest as he kicked a collection of keys across the floor.

He easily sidestepped what remained of the terminal as he felt the scorn of Riddik burn into his helm, the Paladin’s lenses trained intently as Nine unconsciously cleared his throat. Eleven ran a hand across a desk and wiped away a layer of dust and decay, “Shall I search upstairs, Paladin?” he asked in a rather monotone drawl and waved at the mold spores that rose from the rotted surface of the desk.

Riddik merely nodded their head in confirmation and strode forward into the center of the room, standing in the very middle of the mural to look about. In the corners, several deactivated synths lay covered in a thick layer of dust, their once glowing eyes dim and lifeless. Their skeletal faces came as neither a comfort nor a fright, and to the Paladin the Institute abominations were nothing more than forlorn toys, broken and left behind by those that outgrew them.

The Paladin grasped tightly at the hilt of their sledge and made their way into one of the corners of the room to stand before the dead-eyed machines. With their head of their sledge, Riddik curiously nudged at one of the Gen 1 synths leant up against the wall, its head bowed and lower jaw hinged open.

Suddenly, Riddik began to ponder Turner and her newest “friend”, another abomination she’d come to grow near, another love she’d taken as though to strike the Brotherhood Elder across the cheek.

Who would Riddik end first when the inevitable finally came?

Turner, to teach the abomination a lesson? To show the Institute’s trash its place?

Or the synth, to punish Turner for not heeding her past mistakes?

Almost playfully, Riddik pushed over the inactive synth until its head lolled on the ground limply. For all the Institute’s advanced technology, their creations were fragile, frail as a newborn. It was amusing in a way, the fear they wrought all across the Commonwealth, only to be taken down by the lowest common denominator -- the Railroad.

Having found enough fun in pushing the synth deep into the corner until it sat a crumpled mess, Riddik strode up one of the stairwells to the room overtop the main hub. What greeted them was a door barred from the inside, a simple barricade of chairs and a coffee table pinned against the metal frame in a vain attempt to keep out the rabble.

It only worked so well as the Paladin, with one simple kick, knocked in the door and sent the barricade flying. Eleven looked up from an active terminal at the shower of debris, but didn’t budge as Riddik waltzed in leisurely. Even if the table had hit him, the Knight would have held his tongue to stave off the wrath of the rather explosive Paladin.

In some way, Riddik would have convinced him it was his fault for standing there.

Eleven shook his head and turned back to his work, hammering away at the keys as he tried his best to hack into the only active terminal he’d come across. And with the shadow of Riddik now standing over him, ever watching and waiting for results, the work that awaited him only increased tenfold.

A slip of the finger on a wrong key was all it took before Eleven was locked out, the green letters on the screen flashing before moving up and away. Apparently that was enough, because in a split second the Knight was pushed away roughly and replaced by the Paladin.

Riddik waited pseudo-patiently for the terminal to come back on-line, their golden lenses trained on Eleven as he pulled himself off of the wall where his pauldron had become fixed. If only Maxson was aware of how the Paladin treated their underlings -- no doubt, nothing would come of it.

Even Four in all his unabashed stupidity knew better than to tattle, knew better than to go crying to the Elder about Riddik’s unsavory methods of command -- that, and the very fact that Four idolized the Paladin. The only one who ever seemed to take open qualms with their behaviour was the very traitor they were hunting.

Despite how her name was almost taboo on the Prydwen, Turner was the only one who dared to tell Maxson what-for.

Finally, the terminal unlocked and presented itself to Riddik’s waiting hands, their fingers moving furiously across the keys. And like a long-sealed safe, the computer gave a click as it opened up to the Paladin, a long line of entries dyeing the whole of the screen a bright green.

Riddik scrolled through for anything that caught their eye: locations of other safehouses, supply drops, caches, transmission records. Anything and everything that would help them in finding out where the rats had fled would prove fortuitous and most certainly in their favour.

But what caught their attention almost immediately was a rather curious noise from down below. Pausing in their perusal of the terminal, Riddik stood to full height and looked out the window to the floor below to where Nine stood fiddling with an old ham radio.

Despite its disuse, the ham radio sounded to have caught on to the frequencies floating about the Commonwealth, the speaker of the radio placed against Nine’s helm almost comically. While Riddik rounded the corner to the stairs, Eleven took his place back at the terminal, all the while with a roll in his shoulder to remove the knot that was the Paladin’s doing.

Maybe he would have a word with Maxson when they returned. Or maybe he’d like to not find himself hanging off the flight deck by his ankles.

Riddik strode toward Nine and his radio, the static that filled the air as he fiddled with the dials only slightly irritating. But the Paladin was “patient” and only gripped at the desk beside them enough to crease the metal two inches or so.

Nine glanced up when a clear channel came through, and held the radio more firmly against their helm to hear. Certainly it would have been simpler to just remove the helmet, but with the way Riddik stared him down he wasn’t willing to delay much longer.

Soon, however, the chatter was crystal clear, and the sound of a woman met Nine’s ear. There was no way the Railroad could have been so stupid as to use a common frequency to--

“No way, baby! I’m tellin’ you, it’s the safest place we’ve had in a long time!” Came a voice over the radio. “Look, I know Old North was our dig, but we gotta move on.”

Riddik cringed somewhat at the delivery, but never stopped listening. Whoever it was on the channel, they must have tuned in to a common Railroad frequency. Perhaps someone from Old North Church, one of the runaway rats, had been dim enough to use the same radio, the same channel as they had before. If the Paladin didn’t think them stupid before--

“But what about City security? There’s no way we can all get in there.” Came another voice from the other end, a woman with more than a bit of skepticism about her. “We all know about Ticon, and we’re not about to pack up shop. I know Desdemona means well, but really?”

Nine lifted his eyes to Riddik, who now stood closer than ever before, towering over the Knight.

“We’re solid here, seriously solid! Security ain’t that great, but the walls, man. Give it a chance!”

And with that, Riddik turned away from Nine and made their way to the hall. Without a word or command, Nine dropped the radio and scurried after the Paladin, his footfalls clanking on the floor. As dust flew up around him, the knight watched his commander plan in that foreboding silence that always surrounded them.

Riddik felt the rush of wind from the outside racing toward them, their cape fluttering about on the breeze.

Walls? City security? There was only one place about the Commonwealth other than the Brotherhood’s base that could possibly “command” such feats.

And without a doubt in their mind, Riddik set a course for Diamond City.

\---

The morning was brisk as Turner, Nick, and Hancock walked out of Andrew Station and into the open air of Boston --  no more of the thick, stagnant dank of the subway.

Overnight, after Winter had been dealt with, the small Railroad agent and Synth detective returned to their ghoul compatriot, only to find him already up and about “better than ever”.

It must have helped that Hancock was never at a loss for med-x on his person, for after the unfortunate pistol whipping Turner received the costly drug was a relief.

Back in Winter’s bunker, Turner and Nick must have stood there in one another’s arms for a while, as when they finally returned to the ghoul they were greeted with “what took you?”. Something considerably lewd nearly left him, but he stopped it in his throat as he noticed the way the girl and bot stood should to -- well, arm (their height difference was still rather amusing).

Once outside, however, Hancock found it as good a time as any to get talking, now that the stress of finding holotapes and Eddie Winter was out of the way. He didn’t miss the way Nick tried to ruffle Turner’s hair -- hopelessly -- as she ducked and ran, only to steal the synth’s hat moments later. Or when the detective tried to get it back by tugging her hood.

“So,” the ghoul started, walking ahead of Turner and Nick in a few long strides. He turned to face them, walking backwards all the while. The grin that sat on his cheeks was wide and coy, like he had a secret waiting on his tongue, “You two, huh?”

The trio walked up to the aged bridge that spanned the irradiated waterway that ran through a large portion of the city, Turner tripping on a crag in the asphalt. Scurrying to catch herself, she readjusted her coat with a pout and eyed the ghoul down. It was too early to be talking about… things. Too soon, she thought, to make anything definitive.

The morning sun warmed what it could, dyeing the ruins of Boston in a soft, golden glow. The light gleamed off Nick’s bare hand as he lit himself a cigarette almost instinctively. It was more to occupy his hands now that the “talk” (or at least one of them) was in full force, and the girl at his side looked to be struggling just as much as he.

Hancock had warned about wanting to speak with him later concerning the girl, and wasn’t sure if that meant it would be there and now. With said girl present.

“What about us?” Turner asked slyly, but couldn’t hide the red on her freckled cheeks.

“Uh-huh.” Hancock circled around the both of them until he came up behind Turner, his hands on hers and Nick’s shoulders. “When’s the threesome?” he whispered playfully and all but expected the elbow in his stomach. Nick took a particularly long draw from his cigarette, nearly burning it to the filter. “And what about you, Nick? Didn’t take you as the sharing type.”

The synth threw what was left of his stale cigarette to the ground as they continued across the bridge, waltzing around a collection of rusted, abandoned cars. “Not my decision.” Not that he took any qualms with it, he wanted to add, but the words died in his throat.

Both Hancock and Nick looked down to Turner who trotted between them with her shoulders up around her ears. “Kid?”

She looked from one to the other, from golden yellow to deep black, and sucked in a deep breath. “If you two are okay with it…” her words faltered for a moment and she took a few steps ahead to think for a second. “It’s new to me. The, um,” Her hand found its way rubbing at the back of her neck, her head bowed and face sheepish, “Two thing.” She turned to watch them over her shoulder, “But I wanna try.”

Hancock laughed lazily as they caught up with her and threw an arm around the girl, pulling her close. “Three’s a party, huh, sunshine?” The ghoul grabbed Nick next and dragged him nearer by the sleeve, batting the brim of his hat down over his eyes.

Nick questioned Turner silently as he righted his hat, his eyes searching. It was obvious he was uncomfortable with the unknown of it all. Being… well, with someone, wasn’t something he was terribly versed in. But when the girl nodded in affirmation, he had the answer he needed.

The road ahead secured his attention for a minute, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “First time for everything, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit!” Hancock sandwiched Turner between him and Nick, squishing her like a vice. With puffed cheeks, she tried her best to smile up at the detective, but it only came out as a weird fish-like pucker.

The synth couldn’t help but laugh then, genuine and light, and grabbed at her waiting hand.

\---

The city limits of Boston were clouded by a thick fog, like a blanket laid over the entirety of the Commonwealth. Turner watched her breath escape in white puffs, the tip of her nose a bright red. Adjusting her bag, she skipped ahead and kicked a pile of rubble collected at the base of one of the many decimated buildings. Behind her, Nick and Hancock spoke at length about… well, if she could be honest, she didn’t know. Their tones were light and casual, and every so often she would find their eyes on her from afar.

Turner let them continue without input, and scrambled her way up another pile of rubble to glance about at the crowded city roads, squinting through the thick fog. Kicking a single rock down from the top, she watched it skip and hop to the street where it rolled off into the cloud.

\---

Back a ways, Hancock gave pause and waited for Nick to catch on. When the synth turned to question him, the ghoul wore a mask more serious than he’d seen in a long time. Not as serious as when he addressed the people of Goodneighbor, but its own special look. Something obviously plagued him, the way the Mayor fell silent, almost as if he needed to collect his words.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Hancock peeked around the synth to make sure Turner was out of earshot. He spied her up on a hill of concrete and rebar kicking away playfully at the rocks, and gave a crooked grin.

“Talk time.” He announced, and dug into his jacket to find that familiar metal tin he kept close to his chest. The words would come easier once he had a mentat or two on his tongue.

“Here?” Nick asked, almost unconvinced. He looked back to Turner, who watched them for only a moment before digging around in her bag. “Tempting fate, aren’t ya?”  

“Yep.” Hancock replied simply, and threw the mentats into his mouth. He gave a cocksure grin as they clicked on his teeth for a second, “I just wanna get a few things straight. Lay everything out. You feel me?”

The ghoul pivoted when Nick nodded in response, his eyes roving the cracks in the asphalt, “I know Turner and I are… kinda off and on. That’s her choice, and I ain’t gonna tell her how to live her life. Pot callin’ the kettle black shit ain’t my style.” He took a deep breath through what was left of his nose, “I want her to be happy.”

Nick waited for the inevitable “but” that always made its way into these types of conversations, yet he was surprised when Hancock strode forward and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “If you were anyone else, Nicky, this talk would be way different. So…” The ghoul’s features became grave for a split second before his face curled into an amused smile. “Before we get this party started, you got any questions? I’m gonna assume you’re new to this angle, so hit me.”

Nick raised a hand to his brow, somewhat exasperated. He hadn’t expected “the talk” to take this kind of turn. Not one bit. “I’m not green, damn it. I’ve got,” he tapped the side of his head twice with his finger, which only made Hancock snort, “Flashes of things.”

The ghoul made a noise like “pfftt” before looping an arm over the synth’s shoulder. “’Flashes of a girl that ain’t her.” he pointed up to Turner on the hill again, who was building a small mound of rocks to knock over, “Here’s the Sunshine how-to guide.”

\---

Turner’s eyes roved along with the tumbling stones as they faded away, her attention focused only lightly. Coming her way slowly was Nick and Hancock, the former of the two buried under the latter’s arm as they looked to be sharing a rather secretive conversation. She supposed it was the ghoul getting up to mischief with the way the two men occasionally peered up at her, but she said nothing.

 As she turned back to watch the rolling concrete she stilled. Turner followed the line of the rocks up to the metal they stopped against. It was only then did she realize what she was seeing. Looking up past faded and worn plastic to a pair of golden, glowing eyes standing out against the fog cover, she froze.

Turner sucked in a deep breath and reached for the pistol in her coat pocket, the synth waiting in the fog ever watching -- unmoving and silent. She was frozen suddenly when one pair of eyes became two, became five, became twenty yellow orbs glowing in the mist.

Hancock whistled up to her from the foot of the rubble pile with a grin, completely unaware to the danger that now lurked in their midst. “C’mere for a sec. Wanna tell ya somethin’.”

Nick followed Turner’s line of sight down the street. When his gaze landed on the awaiting eyes in the fog, his jaw fell open slowly.

The ghoul was the last to join, and together the three of them stood stock still under the continued watch of the Institute synths. “Kid.” Nick began as his hand readied to grab his gun, Hancock ready and waiting for a call.

“Not running. Don’t say it.” Turner swallowed hard, finding her throat tight. She checked her gun before aiming down the sight shakily.

Her mind stumbled back to the BADTFL, how she was caught under a pile of the unrelenting Institute machines. Her lungs grew tight at the memory, and she felt as though the weight of all those robots now sat on her person, weighing her down, pulling and tugging. It harkened back to her nightmare that felt so long ago, and instantly the weight on her shoulders increased tenfold.

Turner didn’t care for a repeat.

Readying to fire, she aimed at the nearest synth, then to the car waiting beside it. For a second, she thought through the possibilities: shoot at the car and hope it still had some juice in it after two hundred years, run, or try to shoot at as many synths as she could.

Turner’s decision was made, though, when she was thrust forward down the pile of rubble, a duster-clad shadow having jumped from atop the building. Her gun skid across the street as Hancock helped her to her feet and pushed her behind him, Nick coming up around her back to face the group of Gen 1s and 2s. It was only then that she realized what had thrown her.

A Courser.

The detective spied over his shoulder to the Courser on high, his metal digits tugging at Turner’s hood. “You’re running.” She shot him a look like she couldn’t believe what he said, and was only met with a nod of agreement from Hancock. “We’ll follow behind.”

Turner’s gaze darted from one end of the street to the other, synths at one end and a Courser on the other. Unconsciously, her hand rubbed at her throat, at the bruise long since faded. And yet, upon seeing another one of the Institute’s hunters before them, clad in ebon from head to toe, it brought the feeling of hands around her neck once more.

“Hancock.” She started, the numerous synths now beginning to disperse and surround them. It didn’t take long for the whole of the square to be dotted with glowing eyes and gleaming metal. Black eyes shifted to her nervously, and deep down the ghoul was just as scared as she. “See that car? The one against the bookstore?”

Hancock’s eyes moved back to the Courser momentarily, then over his shoulder to Turner, then to the red car just past Nick. “You get it to blow, we can all make a run for it.”

The ghoul swallowed hard and forced what was left of his lips into a lopsided smile.

“Tall, dark, and handsome up there isn’t going to give up so easily.” Nick added. Deep in his processor, he attempted to calculate the odds of escape, what routes they could possibly take to ensure the Courser wouldn’t follow -- and nothing seemed to work. They were outnumbered, to be sure, and creating a diversion like Turner proposed might have been the only viable option.

But Nick was none too fond of it. Whether he liked it or not, that Courser was there for a reason, and no amount of diversion was going to stop them. “Somethin’ tells me he isn’t here for a talk, kid.”

Turner looked back up to the Courser and narrowed her eyes in disdain for the hunter. How many synths escaped the Institute only to be dragged back by one of their dogs, stripped of their newfound freedom the Railroad would hope to offer? Steadily, she took a deep breath, and without looking searched for Nick behind her.

Her hand caught in the duster of his coat and tugged, and out of the corner of her eye she caught him. “Help Hancock get that car going. I can try t--”

Suddenly, the Courser sprinted forward fast as lighting down the rubble, and without pause Hancock fired. Two of the shots missed and dug into the large blocks of concrete that littered the base of the building, one bullet wedging itself into the hunter’s shoulder.

With graceful ease, however, like the bullet had no effect, the Course was upon the ghoul in less than a second, knocking him to the ground. Turner was pushed back into Nick, causing the detective to stumble forward and fire into the fog -- surprisingly downing one of the many synths waiting for them.

As Hancock struggled against the Courser, Nick didn’t wait any longer to devise another strategy. A flash of flame appeared out of the engine of the red Chryslus followed by a booming pop as he shot at the relic of the old world.

It was like disturbing a beehive, as the synths that had been waiting now surged forward toward them, rushing in out of the mist. Behind Nick, Turner lashed out at the Courser, slamming her foot down upon his head in an attempted curb-stomp. The hunter hardly flinched as he glanced up from the currently incapacitated ghoul beneath him, his eyes now visible as his glasses lay broken on the ground.

The Courser relinquished his hold on Hancock and lunged forward toward Turner, hands grasping at the collar of her coat. And just as he went to thrust her forward, the group of synths almost upon them, the car detonated in a violent cacophony of metal shrapnel and fire.

Nick was thrown back into Turner and the Courser by the aftermath of the explosion, his head knocking against the pavement.

Vision going black like he’d knocked some precious wire loose, the detective watched in flashes as the small agent separated herself from the hunter with a swift kick to his groin. This bought her only a few precious seconds to race away in search of a weapon, leaving Nick and Hancock to gather themselves.

\---

Turner leapt over the fallen remains of many of the older synths who now lay broken in the street, and scooped up what she hoped was a functioning Institute rifle. Despite the kick she’d given the Courser, he didn’t relent, and dodged as she fired with what skill she could muster.

Hancock was right, as much as she hated to admit, but her aim truly was terrible.

\---

Back in the square, Hancock pulled himself up by his bootstraps and adorned his hat with a grunt before downing two more synths. The clockwork detective at his feet looked to be struggling, hitting his head several times to knock out the constant fade to black. “Any day would be great!”

The ghoul pulled Nick up onto his feet and steadied him, giving himself only barely enough time to reload and fire again at a new group of synths.

The cobwebs shaken loose, Nick aided him in downing a few more, ducking behind an old retaining wall with the ghoul in tow. There couldn’t have been more than ten or so synths left, and yet there was no sign of Turner and the Courser. With that revelation, Nick quickly turned to Hancock, “You see Turner anywhere?”

Hancock peered over their cover to take a look around, falling back as a hail of blue laser fire bombarded the wall. “Don’t see her. Probably made a run for it, and he’s hot on her ass.” He fired over the wall blindly and heard a crashing of metal on pavement a few seconds later. Once more, he dared to take a look down the street, spotting a familiar coat scurrying away toward a dilapidated hospital. “Yep.”

\---

The old elevator reeked of mold and rot as Turner scurried into the remains of the hospital. Having no clue as to where she could run, she slammed the butt of her rifle into the roof hatch and popped it open with a groan. And with only seconds remaining before the Courser spotted her, she leapt and dragged herself into the elevator shaft.

All around her, years of dust and decay choked the air, and no doubt if she made it through this she’d be coughing for a week. Through the particles, she spied an open door just a few feet up, the elevator doors knocked away to hang into the shaft. With what strength she could muster, Turner jumped and grabbed for the ledge with her free hand, the rifle making it harder to grip.

Despite her efforts, she was yanked down violently by her ankle, falling back down to the metal top of the elevator. Like a vice, the Courser held her in place and tried to pull himself up through the hatch. He was met with a shot to the chest, dead centre and point blank as Turner repeatedly fired until at last he relinquished.

Falling back into the lift, the Courser was not yet defeated, and it was only a matter of seconds before he gave chase. Turner, too encumbered by the rifle, left it on the elevator’s roof, and made a grab for the ledge again, this time succeeding. She pulled herself up with considerable effort, and without stopping, pushed the hanging doors down into the shaft.

The Courser would have to find another way around, and Turner would have to find herself a new gun -- Hancock’s knife wasn’t going to be of much help.

Racing across the tiled floor, she skid to a stop and swung by the doorframe into an empty room, something akin to what must have been an operating theatre. The outer wall had fallen away ages ago, allowing a cold wind to enter and steal Turner’s breath. In the silence that followed, Hancock’s knife found its way into her hand, where she clung tightly to the only semblance of defense she had.

The halls of the second floor were silent with the exception of the wind whistling through the cracks and crags of the walls and broken windows, and even as she forced herself to listen closer, Turner could hear nothing that indicated the Courser was nearby. No footsteps, no quiet breaths, not even that strange sixth sense one had when someone else was nearby. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least, and she did her best to collect herself against the wall.

Only then did she realize she’d left Nick and Hancock to fend for themselves down below. Not that she could have been of much assistance, but the guilt still found its way creeping into the back of her mind. She hoped they were alright; both of them had been around longer than she’d been alive, and even with her Brotherhood training she would have had a hard time taking down that many synths.

Turner felt like a coward, then, staring down at the knife in her hand, waiting and listening for the Courser like a trapped radstag. Put her in a suit of power armour, and she felt like she could take on the world. Strip her away of that, her guns, and her allies, she was no more a threat than--

Through the wall beside her head, a fist slammed through the molded sheetrock and nearly struck her. Turner floundered forward to avoid the Courser’s hand, watching in frightened awe as he tore through the remainder of the wall like paper. Drawing his gun, he took aim and fired, narrowly missing her as she dashed to the door.

She slipped on a collection of yellowed papers and folders just outside the door, and collided into the wall painfully. But it did nothing to stop her as another shot rang out, the bullet piercing the wall to go through another just in front of her.

\---

Back down on the street, Nick and Hancock made their way into the quiet of the hospital. Outside, the synths had been dispatched without further trouble, but the detective knew it was just a ruse. There had to have been more somewhere, waiting for orders from the Courser, watching from the shadows. It irked him deep down, killing those that shared his face, but he had to push the thought aside.

Turner was somewhere in there, and on her tail was the Institute hunter. “Any sign of her?” Hancock asked, making sure his gun was fully loaded. He was running low on ammo and stamina, the wound from the day before still making it hard for him to get going.

Almost on cue, the sound of a gun firing caught their attention, loud and resounding through the empty halls. It echoed down the stairs to them, and without second thought, the two of them raced upwards.

\---

The air was still, quiet even, as Turner waited behind a corner. Somehow, in her panic, she’d made it onto the third floor, not even realizing she’d taken the stairs. It all blurred together, a flash of colours, muted and dull, as she fled from the unrelenting Courser.

He was somewhere nearby, she knew, and with nowhere else to run but up or out, Turner was running out of options.

What did she know of synths? Not Generation 1s and 2s, no, but of Gen 3s? If Metro had been any indication as to what a Gen 3 could handle, Hancock’s knife might just do the trick. But then the Courser from Diamond City came to mind. How many bullets had been fired into him before he finally went down, how bloodied and unrecognizable had he become before he relinquished his hunt?

Turner screwed her eyes shut and gripped the knife handle until her knuckles went white. She listened over the sound of her heart beating in her ears for any sign of the Courser, and soon she got her wish.

A simple creak, like old, dried wood breaking underfoot, echoed down the hall. The Courser was closer… or, at least Turner hoped it was the Courser. What if it was Hancock or Nick, what if she was reckless and ran out, only to stab one of them? She opened her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the footfalls to come closer.

And with each step, they became louder, up until they neared the corner Turner hid behind. Once she recognised the familiar ebon coat, she pounced. Onto the hunter’s back she went, clawing her way onto the fabric of his coat even as he thrashed to remove her. Knife on high, she slammed it down between the Courser’s shoulder blades, embedding it deep into what she hoped was his heart.

And yet, he continued to flail, now yelling out in pain as Turner pulled the knife from his back to ready it for another strike. The Courser was slightly quicker, as he pushed back and rammed Turner at full force into the wall, the old drywall cracking under the impact.

But that did nothing to stop her assault.

Turner stabbed where she could, sheathing the knife into his flesh everywhere she had the chance.

Blood pooling on the floor, puddles of deep sanguine dyeing the tile, the Courser still had the strength to turn and grab Turner by the front of her coat. With a speed and will she had yet to see, he lifted her from the floor with ease and flung her into the far wall. She fell to the floor with a cough, the knife clattering across the tile, too far away for her to grab.

The Courser was upon her in a flash, pulling her arms painfully behind her back. Turner gnashed her teeth as they were bound behind her, her chin scraping across the floor as she tried her best to wriggle away.

But she was stopped as his foot slammed down on her back, the Courser putting the full of his weight down to hold her in place. Raising his hand to his ear, he stared Turner down from on high, looking down the slope of his nose at the small Railroad agent underfoot.

“Target captured. Ready to return.”

\---

Winding up the stairs to the third floor, Nick and Hancock listened for anything they could. No more gun shots were heard as they raced upwards, but the sound of a struggle was obvious. Coming around a corner, they were met with the sight of Turner on the floor, her arms bound painfully at her back, the Courser pinning her easily to the floor.

Eyes going wide, Nick hesitated for but a second before he emptied the cylinder of his pipe pistol firing at the Courser. Just about every shot met its mark, but the hunter did not waiver one bit. Hancock strode forward past the synth detective and cocked his shotgun, his face contorted in what could only be considered primal rage. The Courser did not move an inch at the oncoming assault.

Instead, despite the damage he’d received, the Courser grabbed Turner by the hood and hauled her up before him, his leaking wounds staining the back of her coat a deep crimson. Hancock came to a halt almost immediately, staggering on his own feet to steady his gun now aimed at not only the Courser but his friend.

A strange static filled the air, sparks of electricity bouncing from around the core of the Courser to cover the area immediately around him.

And as it reached its peak, Turner gave one last thrash in the hunter’s hold, the static in the air nearly painful. “Warn the Railroad!” she yelled out over the noise, the last of her words almost glitching as an agonizingly bright light engulfed her and the Courser.

The static clearing and the hall returning once more to nothing more than dim shadows, Nick and Hancock stood in the silence that followed. Turner and the Courser were nowhere in sight, the only thing left behind being a singe in their place.

Hancock’s hold went limp and his shotgun fell to the floor loudly. A loud crack resounded next as his fist made contact with the wall, the old gypsum board caving somewhat. Taking a step forward, Nick joined the ghoul at his side, holstering his pistol deep into his coat. Despite how the synth wanted to say something, his words were escaping him.

No matter how hard he tried to scrounge together a sentence, nothing stuck.

And all Nick could do was stare at the spot burned into the floor and process what just happened.

Turner was gone.

\---

Up Next!

Turner’s been taken by the Institute! With only one option remaining, how far is Nick willing to go to get his newfound love and friend back? And what will happen now that Riddik has their sights set on Diamond City? Will the Railroad finally fall?

Stay tuned for Chapter 19: Infiltration!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be doing a Far Harbor story after Turncoat is finished! I've already started planning out chapters and ideas for it, and if you have anything you'd like to see send me a message!


	19. Infiltration!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! I had some time off between semesters and ended up doing some commission work to help pay for a doctor's bill. And then the next semester started! @w@ But here I am! 
> 
> Just remember, I'm the only one proofreading this, so if you find any errors please tell me!

Fan art by [sincerlyhun](http://sincerelyhun.tumblr.com/)! Check them out!

\---

Leading the way out of the hospital, their ragtag team down a member, Hancock’s steps were heavy with an unsurprising determination. Nick didn’t miss the way the ghoul mayor’s hand constantly clenched and loosened at his sides, his coat sleeves just barely hiding the way his fingers twitched with a growing anxiety the synth knew just as well.

As much as Nick hated jumping to conclusions, he couldn’t help but think, even in the back of his processor, that Turner might truly be gone. It wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on, wasn’t something he wanted to believe -- Turner was confident, sometimes dangerously so, but even she was no match for the unknown that was the Institute. Who could say that even at that moment as Hancock led him past the collection of fallen Gen 2 synths that she wasn’t already dead?

The Railroad was anything but quiet when it came to the Boogieman of the Commonwealth, and even those outside their circle whispered the dangers of the Institute. Replacements, take-overs -- Nick shook the thought from his head and blinked until the image of a synthetic Turner disappeared from his optics.

How would he even know if she was replaced? Would she know herself?

“Hancock.” Nick started, making his way around the husk of an upturned vehicle, trying his best to walk alongside the ghoul. It was obvious his companion was doing everything within his power to keep from sprinting all the way to Diamond City at Turner’s behest.

Hancock shot a look over his shoulder for a split second, the dim light of day just barely glistening on his dark eyes before he turned his gaze back to the end of the dilapidated alleyway before him. The fog did nothing to help him see, his eyes darting this way and that as they exited into the open city street. “What?”

His tone was sharp, dangerously so, and Hancock didn’t bother to stop even as Nick managed to come to his side.

The words teetered on Nick’s lips as he contemplated his next sentence. Despite what he now felt for Turner, he couldn’t deny the reality of it all. As cliché as it might have sounded, he thought if ever there was a sign he didn’t deserve someone in this world -- Turner, of all people -- it would be the arrival of a Courser to snatch her away. What better way to tell the Institute’s trash that he was nothing more than a machine pretending to be a man than to take away the very thing that helped him feel human?

“Even with the Railroad,” Nick continued, matching Hancock’s gait with ease now that he caught up, “what can we do? The Courser in Diamond City was hard enough to take down as he was. Can you imagine what an entire Institute’s worth--”

As much as he hated to be the bearer of bad news, Nick all but expected the ghoul to turn on him. Even as Hancock came to a dead halt and spun on him, pulling tightly at the detective’s lapels, he didn’t stop. The truth was a terrible thing to be sure, but even the distressed mayor had to realize that some things couldn’t be changed.

“The way things are, are the way things are” lingered in the back of Nick’s throat, and yet he couldn’t say them as Hancock’s face turned into a mixture of grave distress and unbridled anger. Even after the debacle with Jenny Lands and Eddie Winter, the synth knew some things couldn’t be changed no matter how much one wanted them.

“Don’t.” Hancock started evenly, and yet there was a gravely edge to his tone. He was hardly in the mood to hear the truth, hardly in the mood to acknowledge that perhaps he couldn’t do anything but accept that Turner was truly gone. “Don’t say it. She wanted us to warn the Railroad, and that’s what we’re gonna do. If they’ve got an ace up their sleeve, I wanna hear it.”

The ghoul relinquished his hold on Nick’s coat and continued on, his walk just as quick but stiffer than ever before. The synth came up beside him, flattening his wrinkled lapels all the while, and looked out of the corner of his eye to catch Hancock’s narrowed gaze. “I’m not saying we don’t tell them, but what do you think they can do? Think about it, Hancock.”

            The clockwork detective pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taking one between two metal digits. He didn’t light it as it sat at the corner of his mouth, but it made him feel only slightly better -- a strange balm to his growing anxiety. “When Riddik attacked North End Church, what could they do? They had to run. A few Brotherhood soldiers were enough to send them scurrying, what do you think they can possibly do against the Institute?”

Hancock’s eyes darted to him in thought and almost instantly returned to the road ahead of them. “They’re workin’ on that teleporter, aren’t they? If they’ve got it finished, we can send ‘em a fuckin’ wakeup call they’ll never forget.” The cogs were turning in the ghoul’s head, and suddenly a thought struck him, “Hell, we use that thing to get in there, we can find Turner, get her back.”

Wishful thinking to be sure, and yet Nick couldn’t begrudge Hancock. Who was to say the teleporter the Railroad had been working so diligently on couldn’t be used to get inside the Institute’s walls, couldn’t be used to find Turner in the bowels of the Commonwealth? “Two birds with one stone, you mean? Get inside, find the Kid, and throw a wrench into the Institute’s machine?”

It was a suicide mission, but it might just work. What did they have to lose?

Nick looked back to the road that would lead them to the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth, and pulling out his lighter he raised it to his unlit cigarette, “Alright. We get in, get Turner, and turn the Institute on its head. Then what?”

Hancock’s lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and with one simple word answered.

“Boom.”

\---

Not so deep under Diamond City, the sounds of sparking wires and humming machinery filled the cramped space the Railroad now called home. In the short span of Turner’s absence, they managed to transform that space of Home Plate into a functioning headquarters for the Railroad. It wasn’t as organized as North End Church, but slowly and surely they were coming into their own. That is, if Diamond City security ever stopped bothering them with noise complaints.

Deacon sat lazily on an unused terminal and watched as Tinker Tom fiddled with a gigantesque contraption. It wasn’t beyond him to know the workings and going-ons of the Railroad -- hell, he knew better than anyone what was happening at any given time. If the other agents didn’t know any better, they’d swear there was more than just one of the sunglass wearing liars running around the newly built HQ.

The teleporter was nearly complete. It wasn’t as hard a job as they originally thought as the mechanical genius of Tinker Tom proved to be a relief. And though the Sole Survivor wouldn’t be around to see the contraption with their own two eyes, without their trip into the Glowing Sea and Turner’s misadventure to the Minutemen’s Castle, the Railroad would be nowhere. Well, they would probably still be in North End not worrying about the next attack, but that was beside the point.

The Courser chip Turner retrieved had long since been cracked and ready, and Tom waited anxiously for the time to implement it. It was like watching a child waiting for a sweet, chomping at the bit until finally they could have it.

Deacon adjusted his glasses as he continued to watch, his feet swinging back and forth as they clanked noisily against the plating of the terminal. If anyone was the child in that situation, it would be him (not just because Desdemona told him to stop on occasion, but the fact that he blatantly continued doing it despite the dirty looks she sent him).

Just as Deacon stuck out his tongue to blow a raspberry at the fourth dirty look from Desdemona the room grew instantly quiet. From above them, the creaking of the front door echoed through Home Plate, the hinges left purposefully in disrepair. Two heavy footfalls entered, knocking dust down through the slats in the flooring, the door slamming shut behind them.

Deacon’s tongue slid back into his mouth, the faint taste of dirt and grit irking him, and he glanced up to watch through the floorboards. The familiar flash of red and dirtied brown caught his eye, and though their voices were muffled he was almost certain he knew their guests.

He hopped down from the terminal without a sound and made his way to a rusted ladder, all the while followed by the many eyes of the Railroad agents in the room. They watched and waited as he climbed his way up noiselessly to a hatch in the ceiling, stalling for one more moment (not just for safety, but for “super suspense” as he liked to call it).

From the floor, Deacon peeked out into Home Plate, his sunglasses the only thing visible in the shadows that surrounded the trap door. If it weren’t for the faint sheen of light on his lenses, he would have been nearly invisible… like a cat with a stealth boy, or a really sneaky guy who wore too many costumes… with a stealth boy. (Honestly, Deacon couldn’t be bothered to think of other analogies).

From his covert spot, he spied the all-too familiar synth detective and ghoul as they looked around worriedly. No doubt returning to the new Railroad Headquarters only to find the Railroad wasn’t there must have been worrying, indeed. Deacon, however, noticed that only the two of them entered, and instantly a small hint of anxiety crept into his chest.

Maybe Turner was out in the commons, still, getting herself a drink for the night, or perhaps finding a good swatter to which she could attach her teddy. One hadn’t truly lived until they killed someone with a teddy bear covered in barbed wire, Deacon thought.

He watched as Hancock ripped his mask from his face and threw it to the floor before making his way up the steps near the front door, all the while calling out. Nick, on the other hand, remained at the landing and trotted about, his glowing eyes standing out in the din.

A faint “psst” noise was all it took to get the synth’s attention, and Deacon all but slammed the trap door open. “You guys look like a deathclaw chased you here. What’s up?”

Nick turned to face Deacon, who now sat halfway out of the floor resting on his elbows like he was waiting for the latest gossip. Hancock’s head popped out from behind the corner at the noise, and like a flash he was at the detective’s side.

“Turner was taken by a Courser.” The synth stated simply. There was no amusement to his tone, no sarcasm or wit about him, and for a second Deacon didn’t know how to respond.

The sunglasses on a normal day made it hard enough for anyone to get a read on the Railroad agent, but as Nick told him simply without preamble what had happened, Deacon’s face was like stone. He was unreadable as he processed the words, and all playfulness left him. “We gotta tell Dez.”

With a wave of his hand, Deacon slid down the ladder into the newly furnished basement below, turning with ease on the last rung to hop the rest of the way. Behind him, Nick and Hancock followed, the synth following suit down the rungs and the ghoul bypassing all niceties and simply jumping to the floor. It was a mistake, the ghoul thought instantly, as his knees buckled for a second, but he hid it with a grimace.

“Dez, we got a problem.” Deacon began quietly as they approached the skeptical Railroad leader, her eyes already narrowed at the two that stood behind the bespectacled agent. The teleporter at her back made a low humming noise as Tinker Tom continued to work, but it was terribly obvious he was listening in on the conversation.

“What is it now? Another guard asking about the noise?” She asked tiredly, as though the problem had been far too prevalent in the past few days. Which it had.

Nick took a moment to gaze up at the teleporter in all its almost-finished glory, and adjusted his tie nervously. Some time over the past few hours, it had come loose around his neck, the knot hanging at the center of his chest. But he tore his eyes from the contraption to focus on Desdemona, who looked to be on the verge of losing her patience.

“A courser got a hold of Turner. Not good, Dez.” Deacon adjusted his glasses so that sat at the bridge of his nose -- anything to hide the furrow of his brow.

Desdemona’s eyes went wide momentarily at the news, though there was a twinkle of something devious beneath Hancock didn’t miss. If he still had nostrils, they’d be flaring.

From the base of the teleporter pad, Tinker Tom all but shot up, removing his goggles and eye loupes in the process, “Shit, you’re not serious, right? How long ago?”

Stepping forward, Hancock’s line of sight moved from Desdemona down to Tom, though he felt the Railroad leader staring him down all the while. “A few hours. You got this thing runnin’ or not?” he motioned up at the teleporter, to the way the supports jutted up to the ceiling and its wires dangled this way and that. The thing was a mess of cables and metal, connections and coils, and all about it was a tickle of electricity.

“It’s almost done. Just a few more tweaks, maybe another line of code or twelve.” Tom admitted, and wiped grease away from his fingers on a far-too dirtied cloth. “Are you thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’?”

A silence hung in the air for a moment as both Nick and Hancock exchanged looks, “If you all are planning to use that teleporter to get into the Institute, then we can use it to get Turner back.”

“Now hold on a minute.” Desdemona interrupted heatedly, and strode forward to meet the synth detective. She barely made it to his chin, but there was an air of danger around her Nick didn’t care for. It set him on edge, as much as he hated to admit it. “I understand Turner being taken poses a problem, but we can’t afford to squander the only use of the teleporter to rescue a single person. I won’t allow it. There’s far too much on the line, too much planning that needs to be done.”

“Too much?” Hancock pushed angrily, advancing on the Railroad leader. “Get the radroach out of your ass, sister. Turner has done more for you and yours than you’ve done in a lifetime.” Desdemona met the ghoul halfway, her arms crossed over her chest defensively. “Didn’t see you get off your laurels to get your boys back -- nah, she got on that airship by her damned self.”

Deacon motioned to Nick with the nod of his head, and the two of them joined Hancock at his side.

“And who was it that had our headquarters destroyed at North End? Who let that Brotherhood monster follow her?” Desdemona whisked her hand in a dismissive gesture. “We’re not going to risk any more of our people trying to fight the Institute head on. The only thing going through that teleporter is getting rid of them, and that’s the end of it.”

“Dez,” Deacon put a hand up to his brow to contemplate, and not even his sunglasses could hide the numerous wrinkles that found their way onto his forehead, “You can’t just say ‘she’s gone, boo hoo’. They’re gonna tear Turner apart in there, get info on us, the Brotherhood, any other people she’s run with. They’re not just gonna take her, and that’s the end of it. What if they replace her?”

“Then we kill her if she comes back.” Desdemona answered simply.

Just as Hancock was about to advance on the woman, his nails biting into his palms, Nick stopped him in his tracks. “Send me.”

The room grew quiet again, and the synth could feel all the eyes in the room upon him. “I’ll blend in better than anyone. Sure, I’ve got some dings,” he looked from Desdemona, to Deacon, to the teleporter, until finally his eyes fell to his shoes, “But I can get in there and get Turner back. You want me to snoop around, I’ll do it. But don’t think I’m going to let you decide if she’s worth saving or not.”

Desdemona stood stock still as everyone’s focus shifted to her, the weight of dozens of eyes now on her shoulders. Perhaps the clockwork detective was right. Sure, send him in to rescue the girl, but what else? What information could he gather as he blended in with the other Institute synths? Could he find just how the Institute made the third generation machines, what they’d done with all those they’d taken over the years?

There were so many things Nick could do while he was in there, and rescuing Turner was just the icing on the cake.

Desdemona sighed, and turned to face the teleporter, “Alright. But you have to agree to my terms.”

“Dez…” Deacon warned, his arms crossed tightly.

“Listen,” she continued with a huff, more aggravated than before, “You get into the Institute, you tap into their network, gather data, and if you must, retrieve Turner. But don’t think you’ll be able to leave the way you came in.” Desdemona tapped one of the many terminals dotted around the room, “We can send you in, but after that you’re on your own. The Institute will already be suspicious of the anomalous reading, and there’s no way we can guarantee the teleporter will even function after you’ve gone through.”

“Deal.” Nick agreed all-too quickly. He’d agree to Desdemona’s terms if it meant he had a chance at getting Turner back -- not just for him, but for Hancock, Deacon, and everyone in between. It was a suicide mission, he knew, but he was well past his warrantee date anyway, and the mess caused by Eddie Winter had finally been laid to rest.

What did he have to lose?

\---

Heading back up through the hatch and into the quiet of Home Plate, Nick and Hancock let the Railroad prepare the teleporter for its first and final run. The detective would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid, wasn’t anxious about traveling into the heart of the Institute.

He’d done a great many things in his life he could consider, well, stupid or irresponsible, but it was all a part of the job. Getting himself stuck in a vault for a few weeks didn’t even scratch the surface.

Now, however, it wasn’t something he was doing for the agency. No, Turner wasn’t some case he needed to solve or some girl he needed to bring home. The latter was somewhat true, when he thought about it, but it wasn’t for the money or the joy he felt at helping another. Nick was more than willing to risk life and limb to bring her back, even if the trepidation he held before said otherwise.

“I wish I could go with ya.” Hancock admitted as he took a seat on a battered, red chair, falling heavily into it with his hat in his hands. Next to him, his hand found a pen left on a small table, and he fiddled with it unconsciously. Soon, though, the pen was discarded (less than willingly) as it flew from his twiddling fingers. “Been thinkin’ about it, ya know,” he sighed and dug around in his coat for an inhaler of jet.

The red canister sat in the palm of his hand unused, though, as Hancock couldn’t bring himself to take a hit, “The shit everyone says about the Institute. Hadn’t really thought about it until now.”

Removing his hat and coat to hang over the banister of the stairs, Nick leant against the wall beside the ghoul. His suspenders felt too tight all of a sudden, and it wasn’t until he lowered his shoulders that he realized he’d wound himself up. “How they replace people, you mean.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, the synth watched as the light from his eyes danced on the marred metal of his bare hand, “I’m gonna get her back, John. I’m not sure how yet, but I’m gonna try.”

Hancock leant forward onto his thighs, his elbows digging as his fingers raked across his scalp. “I always heard stories around Goodneighbor about people bein’ taken in the middle of the night. Hell, one of my boys shot a guy down because his folks said he wasn’t actin’ right. If they do that to Sunshine, I…” his ebon eyes found Nick, and for once in a long while the ghoul looked to be at his wit’s end, “Try to get her back, Nick, or at least kill the fucker that took her.”

Without another word, Nick simply nodded.

\---

In the early hours of the morning, the hum of electricity filled the basement. It was a static that made the clockwork detective feel nauseous (or so he thought -- he could only imagine what it might feel like to a living, breathing human), and it signaled that the teleporter was almost ready to go.

Tinker Tom darted from one terminal to the next, checking and rechecking the connections, making sure the coordinates were correct, and that the satellite positioned on the roof was up and running.

Deacon approached Nick and Hancock as they stood amongst the chaos of the Railroad HQ, and put a hand on the synth’s shoulder. He all but pulled the detective away from the ghoul and into an alcove off to the side, away from any prying eyes. “When this thing gets running, Diamond City’s takin’ a nap. Good thing sunrise is soon, right?”

From seemingly nowhere, Deacon produced a lantern and shook it around noisily, “Finally all these things are going to come in handy. You know, instead of just being an aesthetic choice.”

Despite the agent’s attempt to lighten the mood, Nick couldn’t bring himself to grin.

“One thing, though.” Deacon placed the lantern on the ground with a clink and plucked at one of Nick’s suspenders skeptically, “Don’t think the Institute’s gonna believe the get-up.” He pushed his glasses up with one finger, and made a popping sound with his lips, “Commando time.”

“There goes my dignity.” Nick sighed, understanding then why Deacon had pulled him away from the others. ‘The suit makes the man’ came to mind, and the idea of being exposed for what he was suddenly bothered him.

Nick hadn’t anything to be terribly embarrassed about -- with the exception of a few exposed wires, circuits, and patches of plastic skin missing -- but for the first time he would have to act like the very thing he was.

He was struck with a sudden sadness. After all those years of making himself anything but a synth in the eyes of those around him, he would have to throw himself into a world where he was nothing more than that. The man in the mirror became less of a man, then, as Nick discarded his outfit, making sure to fold it neatly before being faced with himself.

It wasn’t that he was unused to his appearance. Hell, Ellie had on more than one occasion forced him to change. Synth or no, the Commonwealth was enough to make anyone stink, and he was no exception. There was more grace then, going about it all. At least he hadn’t been exposed to a dozen people in the process.

He supposed it was more like when he first woke up in that garbage heap, thrown away with the rest of the Institute’s trash. Stumbling around, a metal man with barely a grasp on the world around him, Nick must have been a sight to the first settlers he ran across.

Deciding he’d dwelled long enough, Nick followed Deacon out into the open and toward the teleporter. Hancock stood waiting, watching as currents arced from one connection to the next, more fascinated by the device than he thought he’d be. It was like something from one of those comics Kent Connolly seemed to be reading all the time, almost too sci-fi to be real.

The ghoul turned to face Nick and Deacon as they approached, not at all commenting on the synth’s sudden lack of attire. He knew better than anyone not to mock someone’s appearance. “You good to go?”

“As good as I’ll ever be.” Nick answered quietly, and followed Deacon as he led him over to the waiting platform.

The agent came to a stop and nodded his head up to the pad in the center, his lips pulled into a line as the synth complied without comment.

Standing there a foot above everyone else in the room, Nick looked about at the agents, at PAM in the corner with Glory, Drummer Boy, and a few other unknowns, down to Desdemona, and then back to Deacon. Hancock remained where he was, and with a nod he acknowledged the ghoul, and stared up at the three pylons that surrounded him.

It was shocking the Railroad managed to build the contraption in the first place. Where they got their parts, their equipment, Nick couldn’t and wouldn’t know, and he didn’t care to -- it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Tinker Tom looked up from his monitor to give Nick a once over, his goggles gleaming as another arc of electricity danced over the synth’s head. “Now, when you get in there, we’re not gonna be able to contact you directly, but this,” he pushed his goggles up as he walked around the terminal to pass Nick a small holotape, “will help us tap into their network. I’m gonna take what I can and try to find you an alternate route to get out. It might take a while, so…”

“So can finding Turner.” Nick added quietly, and Tom took that as the cue to step down and return to his monitor. “I’m ready if you are.” He continued as he placed the holotape into his chest, into an unused slot for the time being. The tape he usually kept on his person from Eddie Winter had been removed, so it was as good a place as any.

Tom nodded and returned his goggles into their rightful place, scanning the blur of green text as it ran across the dirtied screen. “I’ve got the courser data runnin’ through this baby, so it should only be a second. Gotta tap into the classical channel to get it goin’. One sec.” He fiddled with a number of dials, typed faster than Nick could catch, and knocked the top of the machine for good measure before returning his eyes back to the waiting synth. “Count down.”

Nick straightened at his post, eyes forward, and shoulders back. His hands clenched unconsciously as he waited, and he swore the skin of his left palm started to split. He supposed it was only a matter of time, and then was as good as any.

“Three.” Tom began, and glanced up from his monitor to take in the synth.

“Two.” Deacon came into frame, his glasses alight in blue as the room began to swim in colour.

“One.” Hancock watched on, holding firm to the lapels of his frock, worrying away at the worn fabric.

A flash of bright blue light engulfed Nick in a second, and there was a sudden pain, like a pull he’d never experienced. His vision flickered in and out as his circuits felt like they were misfiring one by one, and in the back of his head he felt like his processor was overloading, working far too fast.

But just as the pain reached a crescendo, it ceased in an instant, and the pull Nick felt on his chest came to a stop.

He stumbled forward as though he were shoved, tumbling onto his hands and knees as the room around him faded from a faint blue to an overpowering red. Nick remained where he was, almost too afraid to move as his mind slowed down and the pain lessened. Luminescent eyes searched the grating of the floor beneath him, following the lines of metal down the room and to the wall where a door lay.

Forcing himself to stand, Nick took in the room he arrived in less than gracefully. It was small, like a bay, dotted with a hundred or so red lenses trained into its very center, the floor dyed a deep black from numerous travels before his. Leant against the wall for support, he made his way out and into the open of an adjoining room, the apertures of his eyes opening to allow more light in the unlit lab.

Across the way was a wall of what he assumed was glass etched with geometric designs, all straight lines and far too perfect, aglow in the light that lay beyond. As Nick made his way past an unpowered terminal, he tapped the holotape in his chest and reminded himself to find a working computer somewhere in the future.

It wasn’t until he came to the glass wall that Nick realized what he’d gotten himself in to. Looking down through the thick pane, he was greeted with a colossal room ten stories high dotted from one end to the other with lights, bridges, swooping curves, and countless synths and humans alike. The Institute was a veritable beehive of activity, and there he stood above it all coming to understand the gravity of the situation.

Down there, somewhere Nick hoped, was Turner.

And he would find her.

\---

Up Next!

Deep inside the Institute, Turner lay captive. Stripped of everything she holds dear, she’s left with nothing save nary the clothes on her back. When the days pass by and countless times she’s taken for questioning, she begins to feel herself crack. What happens, though, when help comes from an unexpected place? Will Turner break free?

Tune in next time for Chapter 20: Ersatz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on ideas for the sequel for Turncoat! I have a ton of ideas around DiMA, creepy or other wise, that I can't wait to get to! 
> 
> Don't be afraid to comment! It really helps me out when you guys talk!


	20. Ersatz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry for this chapter taking so long to get out! I was swamped with school work, and I hardly had the motivation to write much less type! But it is done, and we're one step closer to the big showdown!

\---

The cell was small and devoid of bedding, seating, or any kind of furniture as Turner sat against the metal wall of her new home. The floors were more sterile than anything she had ever experienced, and as she rubbed her hand across the smooth surface she couldn’t help but notice the cold that shot through her bones.

Turner’s first day in the Institute had been a waking nightmare. Try as hard as she might to fight against the injured Courser that took her, the hunter finally won out -- though bleeding profusely all over the Institute’s delicate flooring. Decontamination had come next, the embarrassing show of how futile her fighting had become, followed by a slew of threats, a round of interrogation, and the seizure of her possessions (teddy and all) until she was deposited in her cell with barely her underclothes to keep the chill away.

It was then as Turner sat alone that she realized the gravity of her situation. The scientists that poked and prodded on her arrival were more than just curious. They took blood, measurements, and small samples of skin before she downed one with a kick to his groin and was subsequently taken away. If they were planning to replace her with a synth to manage their way into the Railroad… she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

A terrible ache grew in her back as she sat and thought in the dim of her cell, a large bruise dyed a deep green-black slowly building under the skin betwixt her shoulder blades -- though she supposed being thrown into a wall by a Courser wasn’t going to give her a glowing complexion. Bruised and battered, but most certainly not glowing. (Unless the radiation set in, then that was a different matter altogether).

On the far wall of her cell, one would expect more metalwork, any way to seal a prisoner off from the outside world, but it was not so with the Institute. From the moment Turner was deposited so graciously in her new abode, she couldn’t help but notice the single sentry placed outside her cell next to a large pane of glass that served as the outside wall.

A simple Generation 2 synth was all that was needed to keep her in check, she supposed. How would she fight it if she were to break out? Pull its wires from its neck, smash in its processor, or tell it one of Deacon’s bad jokes?

To be perfectly honest, the latter of the ideas seemed the most probable -- Turner couldn’t remember a time when even one of Deacon’s ill-timed jokes landed. Maybe it would do well at shorting out the synth’s processor.

The passage of time since she was taken was hard to grasp. The sentry outside her door remained stock still even as the hours ticked by, as scientist after scientist walked the halls and synth after synth acknowledged it. There were no shift changes as far as Turner could tell, and with what scarce food they brought her it was hard to tell if she’d eaten once a day or more. It was almost as though after the Institute’s initial interest in her had worn off. They’d discarded her to a cell where she could be disposed of later after she’d wasted away.

Luckily, she hadn’t been dragged off to be interrogated once again -- she could hardly stomach the first round of questioning. If the Institute wanted information from her, they sure as hell weren’t going to get it.

Turner pushed her legs away from her chest and stretched, the cold of the floor stinging the back of her exposed legs. And as she sat waiting for the warmth to return, her thoughts turned to Nick and Hancock.

She hoped they were alright, that another group of synths didn’t appear out of thin air and finish them off after she’d been taken. And she hoped they at least made it back to Diamond City to warn the Railroad about what had transpired, warn them that she might be replaced, and their newest hideout might be in jeopardy already.

Turner ran her hands down her face and ruffled her hair until her scalp hurt. It was agonizing to sit and wait, to amble in a cell while her friends on the outside could have been hurt or worse. She hadn’t much of a choice in the matter, and there wasn’t much she could do other than break her hand trying to shatter the glass of her cell. She knew as she looked up at the dead bulb in the ceiling of her cell, the small space lit only by the light of the corridor past the glass wall, that doing so would only draw the ire of her guard.

“What if they got the teleporter working?” The voice inside her head prodded as she stood to walk around her prison. “They could get inside the Institute, and then--” Turner shook her head as her legs worked to keep her vertical, the guard outside turning to watch as she began to walk circles around the room. “And then what? Get shot as soon as they popped in?”

Turner blew a raspberry at the idea. The Railroad wouldn’t be so stupid as to think they could just wander into the Institute. Sure, the teleporter would be a great advantage if they got it working, but what could they actually do with it? Would it really work to begin with? Or would it just blow up in their face… literally.

The Gen 2 synth outside continued to watch as her tongue protruded from her mouth as she walked, its glowing yellow eyes moving from one corner to the other as she did slow laps. This continued for several more minutes, the constant back and forth from the far wall of the cell to the glass near the guard. It wasn’t until Turner came to a stop at the window that the synth truly took her in, its optics moving quickly from her eyes, down to the small pink protrusion between her lips, and back again.

“You.” Turner said firmly, her arms crossed over her chest. To anyone else in any other position, the gesture might have been seen as defensive, but really it was the easiest way to keep what warmth she gathered in place. “How long have I been here?”

The Gen 2 only continued to stare, its skeletal features unchanging, and shifted the Institute rifle in its grasp. “I am not to speak with you, ma’am.” It responded flatly before turning away from her, its glowing optics now trained on the far wall where another cell laid -- this one devoid of any life.

If ever a machine could convey anxiety, then her guard was giving Nick a run for his money.

“What are they gonna do with me?” she tried again, tapping on the glass with her fingers. “Are they just gonna make you stand outside my cell until I expire? Is that your only function?” Turner placed her hands against the glass, only an inch away from pressing her nose against it as well. The chance to pull a Deacon struck her, and without anything better to say “Do you have a sleep mode?” left her lips.

The synth stared hard at the other cell, its metallic digits digging into the grip of its rifle. It was almost as though it was trying its damndest not to answer her, but even as Turner stood behind it through two inch thick glass she could tell it wanted to reply. It was hard to miss the way its eyes darted this way and that to keep its attention off her.

“Do you have a name?” Turner asked simply, her palms flush with the cold glass. Her breath fogged against it as she breathed, waiting for an answer she knew would most likely never come.

But the synth surprised her. Pulling its eyes away from the adjoining cell, it turned to face her, the barrel of its rifle aimed at the floor. It stared down at her, nearly a foot taller or more just as Nick was, and peered long at her face past the moisture on the glass. It drew its mouth into a thin line like it was gathering its courage, or thinking long and hard about what to say. It was during this moment that Turner took the chance to draw a shoddy smiley-face into the foggy glass and stare up at it.

As the smiley faded and she continued to wait, she sighed, her shoulders falling.

“My designation is 3R-5ATZ.” The synth answered suddenly, its voice deep and baritone not unlike some of the other Generation 2’s. “Many of the scientists have designated me Ersatz. I do not understand why.”

It was a start; Turner told herself it was one small step forward to making her new home slightly less miserable. She almost wanted to laugh at this Ersatz’ inability to understand its own name. It was almost cruel to name an Institute synth… well, synthetic, but it wasn’t incorrect. She supposed she wasn’t much better when it came to giving things nicknames.

“Ersatz?” her eyes wandered for a second as she thought of her next move. Ersatz trained its eyes intently on her and followed the path of her finger to her lips as she thought. “Do you have a favourite colour?”

\---

The halls of the Institute echoed with a quiet hum that seemed to originate from nowhere and everywhere all at once as Nick found himself lost in a proverbial labyrinth. Every direction looked nearly the same -- all the same bright grays and blues, the same swooping lines and curves, the same faces and sounds -- all of it surrounded him for a time. It wasn’t until he pulled himself away to hide in a nearby utility closet that he could gather his thoughts for a moment.

The Institute was unlike anything Nick had ever seen. Sure, the Brotherhood’s airship was another token sight, but that was long since behind him. Somewhere deep down, he felt as though he should know something, remember something, anything about the underground paradise, but everything escaped him.

The clockwork detective took a few minutes to lean himself against a wall and think things over. A detective was nothing without his thoughts and deductions, but right then and there, Nick was pulling up empty.

It had only been a day or so since he’d infiltrated, at least as far as his internal clock could tell, and yet there was no sign of Turner. Even as he did what Tinker Tom instructed and inserted the holotape in an unwatched terminal, the network gave him no further information. If anything, it only helped to increase his growing worry that looking for his taken friend was a lost cause.

“You’ve had cases harder than this. C’mon.” Nick reminded himself and paced the closet slowly, one hand on his hip and the other positioned just at his chin.

If only he could find where prisoners were brought (if anywhere), and move on from there. But posing as a stoic, rather insentient machine and nothing more was wearing on his nerves, and fast. If one more scientist ordered him to scrub the floors again, he might just glitch and hit them with the mop before being sent to decommission.

Or reeducation. Whatever the Institute decided to brand it.

Steeling his nerve once more, Nick stood straight and went to fix his coat, only to remember as his hands grasped at nothing that he was naked as a jaybird. And with a groan, his hands fell back down to his sides before he stepped outside and continued on with a small group of synths that happened to be passing by.

A memory from the old Nick came to mind as he looked from one synth around him to the other, a mix of Generation 1’s and 2’s, all in different states of decay -- not much unlike him. It was almost comforting to see so many that looked like him, shared the same face and build, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder if one day he would look so shoddy, so worn down, so… obvious.

A flash of college students from before the war passed before Nick’s eyes, a regular group of fresh-out-of-high school students that stuck together for one reason or another. Maybe for their looks, their eccentricities, or their interests.

And as much as Nick wanted to see if the synths around him possessed minds of their own, he couldn’t break his cover just out of curiosity. For just a little while longer he would bite his cheek… what was left of it.

He stared down at his warped reflection in the polished floor as he walked amongst the others, watched as the bare metal of his foot clacked as it landed. Walking alongside those of his kind -- his missing skin and worn features commonplace -- he couldn’t help but worry that the smell of cigarettes permanently clinging to his plastic skin would be a bit of a giveaway, but as of yet he hadn’t had any--

“You there.” A scientist is one of the branching halls suddenly called.

The gaggle of synths came to an abrupt stop and Nick had to catch himself before he ran into the back of a Gen 1 standing in front of him. With eyes wide, the group looked to the waiting scientist who stood just outside what must have been a canteen of sorts, a collection of boxes at her side. “You all come here. I need these boxes moved into storage.”

With anxious trepidation, the detective followed in suit as the group of synths approached the woman, each one coming to stand near or around the boxes to await the rest of their orders. The scientist looked from one to the other, and down the line she went as though she were judging them. He narrowed eyes and gaunt features made her appear older than she was, and the hunch in her back was a sign that she didn’t get much time away from a microscope.

Nick was reminded of that Desdemona woman back in the Railroad, with that same sharp tongue about her and those thin features. The authoritative voice certainly hadn’t helped. Turner would probably have some snarky remark waiting in the back of her throat, and he would hardly be the one to stop her.

“Move these boxes into block A-4 down on level two. And when you’ve finished, come back to me for another task.” The woman spied Nick, and to her he appeared as nothing more than a badly damaged Gen 2. “What’s your designation?” she asked curiously, a small pad and pen in hand.

The clockwork detective only continued to stare, his eyes wide with what he hoped appeared to be innocence. He didn’t dare utter a word even as the scientist narrowed her eyes.

“Another damaged vocalizer?” She scoffed and made a quick note on her pad, looking back up at Nick every other word until she was satisfied with what she had written. It was almost like she could see right through him, through every hole in his plastic skin, through every bit of frayed wiring and warped metal. “Discontinuing the Gen 2’s can’t come soon enough. Fall apart as soon as look at you.”

Deep down, the clockwork detective felt a pang of anger blooming in his chest, words bubbling up in his throat. He supposed he shouldn’t have suspected anything different and even as the other synths around him picked up their respective boxes they all slowed a bit to catch his eyes. There was a hate Nick thought he’d grown accustomed to scratching and clawing its way back up to the surface, a hate he thought he’s buried years and years ago.

“Get to work, then. I’ll run a diagnostic on you when you get back. All of you.”

Nick nodded and kept his metal digits from ripping into the cardboard box he’d hefted off the floor. Getting away from the scientist couldn’t come soon enough, and he found himself at the front of the pack of synths as they made their way down an adjoining corridor. It wasn’t until they were in the dim hall that he slowed down to follow in suit with the others, his back bent to keep the weight of the box from slowing him down.

The synths ahead of him led the way, and like an inconspicuous duckling Nick followed in suit. When they arrived at the storage room he all but unceremoniously dropped his box to the floor, the other synths looking to him suddenly.

Enough was certainly enough, and the detective was squandering valuable time doting on the whines of some random Institute scientist. “This all in a day’s work for you?” Nick asked the others as he pushed the box away with his foot whilst his fellows deposited their cargo. They departed without delay, and with no reply in sight, he watched them exit into the hall.

He remained standing where he stopped, his feet planted firmly on the floor and waited until the sound of footfalls ceased. He’d be damned if he waddled back to have his processor checked.

Now that Nick stood alone in the bowels of the Institute, the storage room dark and nearly silent save the low hum of a nearby generator, he pondered on his next course of action. “There’s gotta be somewhere they take prisoners.” He mumbled to himself, though the image of Turner sitting in a corner with the words “TIME OUT” scribbled on the walls made him chuckle -- if only for a second.

Before long, his internal clock told him he hadn’t moved from his spot in over an hour -- when one didn’t sleep, age, or worry about matters of time, one often forgot the little things. Ellie wasn’t wrong when she called him an “in the moment” kind of guy.

The question as to how he would return to the Commonwealth still lacked an answer. Even if he reunited with Turner, how would they escape? How could they manage to return to the Railroad? How could--

The sound of booted feet echoed down the hall, and in a scramble Nick looked about for a place to hide. Glowing eyes darted across the various boxes of supplies until at last they landed on a locker in the corner, its door slightly ajar. It would be a tough squeeze, but he quickly made do as he threw open the door to the locker and clambered inside less than gracefully.

A metal coat hook dug into his back as he shimmied inside as far as the locker would allow, the small vents on the door the only way he could see into the room.

With a loud, resounding hiss, the storage room door slid open to reveal another Gen 2. It was simply garbed in a pristine white uniform, a gold stripe running down the length of its side, the plastic of its face unmarred and clean.

Nick couldn’t remember a time when his own face appeared that way. From the moment he woke up in the trash, his skin left something to be desired and as the years went by it only grew worse.

Hoping the light of his eyes wouldn’t give away his position, Nick watched with narrow optics as the new synth ambled further inside the room. It looked back to ensure the door slid fully shut before it went to work searching through some boxes against the wall.

‘Someone’s got something to hide.’ The detective made note as he monitored the scene, the mystery synth trotting from the boxes to a locker next to it. It cracked open the asbestos boxes all the while, and for a split second he worried the curious bot would discover his hiding spot. ‘What are you lookin’ for?’

Luckily, and breathing a sigh of relief from the sight, the synth stopped at a metal trunk. It must have had an inkling or found what it was looking for, for it dropped to its knees and dug through the contents, its eyes wide.

As though it found some grand treasure, Nick inhaled sharply as the synth pulled forth a ragged satchel, an all too familiar teddy bear protruding from the corner flap.

If he hadn’t known any better, he would have assumed the paltry thing to be just an ordinary teddy, but the missing ear and worn bag were more than enough evidence to convince him it was Turner’s. The final nail in the coffin was the patchwork olive overcoat the synth pulled out next, the inquisitive bot inspecting it carefully.

The clockwork detective could only watch as the synth stood with Turner’s things, her bag under one arm and coat slung over its shoulder, and made its way to the door.

Nick finally had a lead, and a damn good one at that. He hoped this synth would lead him to Turner, or to the synth replacing her, and he could leave the sterile walls of the Institute once and for all.

Like a bloodhound with his nose to the ground, Nick followed behind the synth into the hall, stepping through the door before it fully closed. At the very end of the hall, he spied the synth taking the corner, its boot squeaking on the polished floor as it swiveled and continued on.

He wouldn’t let the bot get away that easily, not when he finally had some hope. And if he had to corner the bot and beat the information out of him, he would find where Turner laid.

\---

Tired and despondent, Turner sat against the wall of her cell, her legs pulled tight against her chest to keep the warmth close. She counted the small scars dotting her bare feet from the many times she’d run across the Citadel grounds barefoot when she was younger, leaving a much younger Arthur Maxson in her wake.

What would the Brotherhood Elder think of her now as she sat stripped of her freedom in the depths of the Institute? From a proud knight of the Brotherhood of Steel, to turncoat traitor and Railroad agent, and finally to prisoner, she hadn’t taken the best route in life.

She was probably a wanton sight, that much was certain. She was surprised Riddik hadn’t gotten to her first with all their gusto, but in the face of potential replacement the Paladin was hardly a threat. Riddik could frill their feathers and swing that hammer of theirs all they wanted, they didn’t scare Turner any more than Hancock’s terrible snoring.

Turner wiggled her toes until she could feel them again and blew a short raspberry at no one in particular. Part of her wished the Institute would end it already, though she guessed remaining in isolation was a far greater punishment than immediate torture and death.

As though sensing her inner turmoil, the hiss of an automatic door at the far end of the hall caught her attention. Springing up from the floor Turner marched up to the glass, her hands pressed firmly against it.

In the distance, she spotted Ersatz returning, its head bowed and eyes trained on the ground in front of it. Under one arm it held her bag tight, the various knick knacks inside hopefully intact, and her coat in the other.

She couldn’t help the lopsided grin that crossed her face when the synth came to the door of her cell, its hand pressing on a keypad just out of sight. Several beeps met her ears, and in an instant her cell door opened.

The thought hadn’t struck Turner as to what she would do if the scientists found her with her belongings, but at that moment she didn’t much care. Ersatz appearing in the doorway with her things was such a tremendous relief the worry of retaliation didn’t matter at all to her.

With the synth in the doorway, it prevented her from darting out even if she wanted, and it stared silently as she approached it with more than a hint of apprehension.

Turner’s feet made light slapping sounds as she walked, stopping when she stood about two feet away from Ersatz, “You actually found my stuff?” she questioned, somewhat dumbfounded at the revelation. “I’m surprised they didn’t incinerate it.”

It would only be a cruel trick if the synth were to pull her belongings out of arm’s reach as she went to take them, though thankfully Ersatz did no such thing. It remained stationary as the softness of her overcoat met her fingers, letting the coat slide from its hand without protest.

A sigh of relief escaped Turner when the coat was pulled around her shoulders and instant warmth enveloped her. Zipping the coat up to pull the hood high up and around her jaw, she could smell the faint musk of the ocean still lingering in the cloth.

Prisoner or no, the scent washed over her, and her anxiety waned. “Thank you.” She almost whispered as she smiled down at her bare feet, her eyes traveling up the length of Ersatz’ leg to see her bag, “I didn’t expect you to find it.”

Noticing her stare, it handed over her bag and remained idle in the doorway as she placed it on the floor. Rummaging through her things without a second thought, Turner pulled forth Nick’s gifted teddy and gave it a tight squeeze against her chest, savoring the plush cloth that rubbed at her chin.

Ersatz only continued to stare as she nuzzled at the bear lovingly, its face stoic and unreadable. Such a small gesture and yet the synth felt… it didn’t rightfully know. Happy? Relieved? It was a question that rooted itself in its mind as it watched Turner lower the bear back into her bag, closing the satchel shut to keep it safe.

“Thank you. Really. I…” She stood and slung the strap of the bag over her head, “I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t help. You’re very--” Turner stammered as she struggled to find the correct word. The words “kind”, “sweet”, and maybe “gentle” came to mind, and yet she felt she couldn’t apply any of those to the synth before her.

Ersatz was different and familiar all at the same time, and in an instant Turner could only think of Nick and Hancock, to the synth and ghoul that remained so kind and generous despite the life they’d been given.

She went to continue, her mouth hanging open until she found the right way to express her thoughts. However, she was cut off when Ersatz snapped its head to the side, its eyes trained on the door at the end of the hall.

For a moment, Turner feared a Courser had come upon their little scene, but as Ersatz stepped backwards away from the door, she let out a short gasp.

There Nick stood in the light of the adjoining room, his eyes aglow in the shadows. If he was going for a dramatic entrance, Turner would have to give him credit. She guessed it wasn’t too farfetched to think he knew something about the detective noire trope.

He walked forward, his eyes glued to the pane of glass she stood behind, not at all paying mind to Ersatz. “Kid?” he began, almost like saying her name was a struggle. “Turner?”

“Nick?” Turner echoed, and she quickly made her way to the door of her cell.

She all but galloped out, keeping in mind Ersatz remained in the hall with her, and raced to the approaching detective. If ever anything belonged in a cheesy Noire novel, it was her meeting him halfway and embracing him. Without preamble or pride to weigh down her feet, she flew into him with enough force that he teetered back on his heels.

Her arms coiled around him until her fingers found purchase in the seams of his plastic skin, the top of her head resting just under his chin. She closed her eyes to take in what was happening, hoping beyond anything she wasn’t having a dream of some sort.

Nick reciprocated after a moment of thought, his arms sliding around her back but not squeezing. She was grateful he didn’t pull her too close, as even the light weight of his hold was enough to make the ugly bruise on her back ache.

The smell of cigarettes met her nose as Turner curled her fingers at Nick’s back, her cheek sitting over a small hole in the plastic of his chest.

It wasn’t until she opened her eyes that Turner realized Nick felt… well, less clothed than usual, and pulling back away from him a snort exited her nose. “You’re naked.” She quipped as she adjusted her coat into place, anything to hide the draft that blew up past her knees.

Ersatz came up behind her and stood awkwardly at her back, its eyes boring deep into the detective. It easily towered over her small frame, even compared to Nick, but Turner hardly noticed its presence. “Did Hancock put you up to it?”

Nick went straight as an arrow, his shoulders pulled back, “Can’t say the coat was a good disguise. Not many synths go around dressed to impress.” He chortled quietly, “And it was Deacon’s idea to go commando -- you can thank him for the sight when we get back.”

A tense silence sat between them as neither of them could think of something to say, and suddenly the synth detective felt somewhat vulnerable in front of the small agent. He wasn’t much to look at, but he was slightly nervous being literally and figuratively exposed in front of her. Turner didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, and he couldn’t help but notice the rosy tint her cheeks adopted.

Ersatz watched the two of them embrace again, and heard Nick even as he tried to whisper to Turner. He’d been worried and dreadfully so, and the way his metal digits skimmed from Turner’s chin to her collar said everything he needed.

And to return the small bit of affection, she stood on her toes and gave the detective a quick kiss -- still terribly awkward and unused to intimacy herself -- and also too short for her own good.

Nick didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back out of shock, and gave a nervous smile.

Maybe, just maybe, he was getting used to it.

Ersatz was utterly fascinated by the display, its head quirking. It was something it had never seen personally, never experienced or dealt with, and it was no secret that gossip flew through the Institute’s halls of taboo trysts. And the one before it was an all-too interesting revelation.

Turner ran up to the worn detective without pause, took him in her arms, and conveyed to the best of her abilities that she missed the synth more than Ersatz could imagine.

“How’d you get in?” Turner asked, “Did Deacon throw you down a mole rat hole or something?” she laughed for a second and cut herself short, “Or did he dig himself a tunnel with a spoon?”

“If only.” Nick shook his head, suddenly missing the warmth Turner left at his chest. H tore his gaze from her and let it rest on Ersatz, “Can’t say we had much of a plan. Those friends of yours managed to finish the teleporter, though.”

Turner couldn’t help but think Desdemona was less than pleased about using the teleporter to send Nick into the Institute. It was the Railroad’s one chance to settle things once and for all, and they’d used it to rescue a single person. She was hardly deserving of it.

Turner’s eyes grew wide and she slapped Nick over the hole in his chest, her fingers pulling at it to draw him nearer, “Is Hancock okay?”

“A bit torn up, but he knows you can take care of yourself.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t necessarily a truth. Nick held his tongue as Hancock’s words threatened to spill forth. She didn’t need to know how the ghoul mayor sat defeated in the Railroad safehouse, the way he begged Nick to either find her or kill the Courser that took her.

For now, he would keep it tucked away and let Hancock tell her himself.

Nick cleared his throat when he realized Ersatz was staring intently at them, its eyes shifting from the hands resting on Turner’s shoulders, to the small, pale hand placed against the detective’s chest. “And what about you, then? Why are you helping?”

Both Nick and Turner stared the Gen 2 down as it refused to speak.

“Do you know a way out of here? Like how the synths pop up in the Commonwealth?” Turner pulled away from the detective to fully face the Institute synth, “Teleporting, or…?”

Ersatz seemed to think but didn’t answer. Instead, it turned on its heel and beckoned the two of them to follow. And with expected trepidation, Nick and Turner walked in tow, shoulder to shoulder.

“Kinda drafty in here, huh?” Turner joked, looking Nick up and down.

“Says the girl with no pants on.” It was his turn to inspect her, Turner pulling her coat low to cover her exposed thighs. She made a face like a mix between embarrassment and jocularity, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves.

She blew a quick raspberry at him and slapped at his arm, letting the coat slide back up to where it was before, “Don’t get used to it.”

The detective ruffled at her already mussed hair, swatting her arm away in the process. “Your friend here gonna find us a way out, then? Can’t say I’m fully convinced.”

“You have a better plan?” Turner waited for Nick to answer, but all she received was a grin, “So let your brother help us.” Amusement was evident in her voice, and she dodged Nick’s swipe as his exposed fingers scratched at the cloth of her sleeve.

“Don’t go makin’ it weird, kid.”

\---

Up Next!

Riddik is on the move as Turner and Nick place their trust in their newfound friend. Will they manage to escape the Institute? What happens when the Brotherhood Paladin shows up in Diamond City? And how will the Railroad stand a chance against a power-armored behemoth with a grudge?

Tune in next time for Chapter 21: No-Cool-Ghoul!

\---

Turner and Ersatz by yours truly! 


	21. No-Cool Ghoul!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for being away for so long! My life took a really twisted turn of events, as I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma back in October. @w@ I've been undergoing a bunch of different procedures, and now I'm going through chemotherapy! But luckily, hodgkin's is one of the most curable cancers, so hopefully I'll be right as rain soon enough! 
> 
> I want to thank each and every one of you who has stuck with me for this long, whether it be here or on tumblr, and I'm so grateful for all your kind words! 
> 
> Turncoat hit 5,000 hits, too! Holy crap, you guys are awesome, and thank you!

**Look at these awesome fan arts! Thank you guys so much! Sources in the bottom notes!**

\---

A thin veil of fog covered the ruins of Boston, dew dotting the ruined and twisted metal of once grand buildings and streamlined cars. Diamond City’s great green walls glistened in the morning sun, dyed a bright orange and warmed only by the glow of winter light. It was rare to see such a morning in the Commonwealth, the air mostly still -- if the occasional watcher or seagull could be excused -- and the chill of the morn was none too uncomfortable.

There was a dull groan as a metal beam shifted after nearly two hundred years of inactivity, and then nothing but silence. But just as the metal lay still once more, the heavy crunch of boot on concrete echoed down the thoroughfare.

Riddik didn’t care for quiet mornings on most days. Typically, they woke, trained, ordered recruits, and all in the span of a few short hours. There was no time to be wasted on watching the sun rise or contemplating the beauty of the ruined wasteland. There were no moments of silence save the times Elder Maxson requested the Paladin, and even those had become too few and far between.

The quiet meant there was nothing, no progress, in Riddik’s warped perspective -- no movement, no change, no explosive reactions, and no advancements.

 Nothing at all.

With that dour thought, Riddik adjusted their powered sledge and continued on down the empty street toward Diamond City’s entrance, the hum of turrets not far in the distance and the dim light of dying fire barrels dotting the road. Nine and Eleven followed not far behind their Paladin, the former of the two slipping slightly on a loose pile of rubble as he idly watched a flock of birds fly overhead.

Riddik, however, paid him no mind as they continued on, Eleven smacking the back of Nine’s helmet when he straightened himself. It wouldn’t do well for the knights to embarrass one another in front of their commanding officer.

There was no way the Paladin would allow the Railroad to escape their grasp once more. They would stamp out what remained of their reclusive little group, and finally catch Turner unawares. When she would be at her most broken. There was a part of Riddik that relished in the thought; to see the face Turner wore when they killed that synth beau of hers over a year ago again. And in front of Maxson no less. Only then would the deserter know how far she had fallen.

It would not be a repeat of Old North Church -- Turner would not escape. Not this time.

Taking long, even strides, Riddik commanded a presence as they approached the main gates of the city, their footfalls heavy and shoulders held square. Their pomp and flair, Brotherhood emblazoned cape fluttered about in the wind, and that was more than enough to quickly draw the attention of the guards positioned outside. They were all too suspicious of the gigantesque figure that approached them, their guns immediately at the ready -- as futile as the display might have been.

Riddik made no attempt to stop as one of the guards hailed them, and in a blur the Paladin’s sledge knocked through the decaying support of a storefront and sent the guard pirouetting. He landed with a dull thud, his gun flying from his hands to clank loudly on the floor several feet away. The sound nearly covered the rattle that left the guard’s lungs, but only nearly.

Nine and Eleven appeared from around the gate’s cover just as the remaining guard fired a single shotgun round at the Paladin’s chest, the scattershot of bullets bouncing off uselessly.

Riddik slowly rounded on the guard, the gold of their lenses flickering in the morning light, and quirked their head to the side curiously. It wasn’t often one stood so brazenly against them when they were so obviously outmatched, and the second shot that hit their cuirass almost made them laugh if it weren’t so futile.

Giving the guard the benefit of the doubt, Riddik paused before they strode toward him agonizingly slow. One precise footfall after another until the Brotherhood Paladin had the guard pinned in the corner, the barrel of the shotgun rammed against the thick plating of Riddik’s chest plate. Towering over him, Riddik remained silent and observed as the guard’s eyes widened and darted from one point to the other.

If one listened enough in the silence that followed, Riddik’s slow, relaxed breaths could be heard -- though that hardly meant they were human.

But just as the tension reached a head, Riddik took a step away and turned their back to the guard. And with the flourish of their cape, the Paladin strode forward to an awaiting elevator on the opposite side of the entrance hall, the dim light of the panel above beckoning them. Without a word as they entered the cramped quarters of the elevator, Riddik merely pointed at the guard. A second later, the very same finger pointed downwards, and Nine and Eleven burst forward.

Riddik watched through the closing doors as their knights took hold of the guard rather unceremoniously, and dragged him through the main gate.

The Paladin was greeted with the dread that seemed to meet all who stepped into an elevator at one point in their lives: terrible, broken music that sounded like it was being played underwater, and dying with age through a half destroyed speaker. This was only exaggerated by the slow ascent of the elevator car itself, the weight of Riddik’s X-01 armour not helping matters much.

However, when Riddik finally did arrive on the top floor of Diamond City’s stands, and because a stunning entrance was certainly key in that situation, they waited for a few seconds as the doors chimed before they stepped out into the open.

Mayor McDonough stood at the railing overlooking the great green jewel of the Commonwealth, unawares to the danger that now lay behind him. If the mayor assumed the one entering his abode to be one of his confidants, then he was sorely mistaken.

“I take it morning rounds were uneventful?” McDonough questioned without turning to face his visitor, obviously assuming them to be one of his city guards or his assistant. His large stomach bounced as he laughed heartily, “The traders recently have been demanding too much, wouldn’t you think? I believe a small entrance fee should be enacted for all those who wish to enter the city. Not too much to ask,” McDonough turned on his heel with a great, twisted grin on his round cheeks, “isn’t that… right?”

His eyes suddenly went wide at the sight of Riddik, and he sent himself clambering back against his desk, his hands grasping for his radio.

Far faster than anything McDonough could hope to achieve, Riddik, with only a few long strides, met the mayor face-to-face, knocking away the radio with one simple swipe of their hand. Pulling the mayor forth by the collar, far from what remained of the radio, the Paladin led McDonough into the center of the room. Down onto the daisy rug he was thrown, his hat knocked cleanly from his head.

“Who do you think you are coming into my office? What do you want?” McDonough’s eyes trailed from Riddik’s emotionless helmet down to the Brotherhood flag pinned under their right pauldron, all the while quite aware of the shimmering blood splatter on the Paladin’s hammer. “You’re from that airship, aren’t you? I’ll tell you all again, you’ve no business in my city!”

Riddik circled around him leisurely, lenses trained intently on the prone man at their feet, the head of the powered sledge leaving a line of red across the dingy carpet. So quietly did Riddik creep, like a buzzard over soon to be dead carrion, not at all offering McDonough the decency of a reply.

It was easy to see the Mayor would receive nothing but the continued stare of the Paladin, and he swallowed hard the lump that formed in his throat. His messages with the Institute hadn’t mentioned a word of the Brotherhood honing in on Diamond City, but after the sudden disappearance of his corresponding Courser he should have known something was amiss.

Whether it was merely coincidence or the events coincided, McDonough hardly knew where to turn for an answer. “What. Do. You. Want?” he tried again through gritted teeth.

Riddik came to a standstill before the bewildered Mayor, and continued to stare for several more agonizing moments before they raised a hand to sit under their chin. Bending low, they took McDonough’s ankle in hand and pulled him forward. Dragging him with as much grace as a lion does a grounded wildebeest, Riddik led him through the entryway and into the lobby, forcing the two double doors open with a kick.

McDonough’s assistant, Geneva, jumped back from the door, obviously listening in to what was happening inside, and remained behind the safety of her desk as the colossal Paladin dragged Diamond City’s mayor toward the edge of the balcony.

“What are you doing?!” McDonough screamed at her, his fingers clawing at the paneling of the floor, “Help me, damn it!”

The rickety elevator hanging over the Stands groaned under their combined weight at Riddik dragged the mayor along for the ride. And as they made their descent, the Paladin was sure to leave McDonough’s head hanging just over the edge, too close for comfort to the shifting wires and supports that kept the lift in place.

Just nearly getting his head caught under the car and landing deck, McDonough attempted to slow his unwilling walk about town by gripping at the metal railing of the nearby walkway. Sadly for him, Riddik didn’t slow in the slightest and merely yanked the mayor forward, ripping him away from the rail with ease.

Dragged through an array of icy puddles and onto the plywood that served as a walkway throughout the city, the mayor was plopped down before the early going citizens of the great green jewel. Before him, Riddik stood tall and raised their hands, banging two metal-clad palms together to garner the attention of the nearby guards, vendors, and the like. Eleven stepped forward next, nearly crushing McDonough’s hand under his metal boot and joined the Paladin at their side. Nine came about next, dropping an unconscious guard to the ground without a second thought.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the great, green jewel, allow us a moment of your time.” Eleven began evenly. Riddik watched as their knight strode forward and brought in the crowd of wary stares and expected apprehension, and noticed quickly the way the guards raised their guns at the sight of their fallen mayor.

“We ask but one favour:” Eleven spied about the curious faces in the crowd, “Tell us where the Railroad resides, and we’ll allow your mayor or return to his…” the knight looked back to McDonough situated in front of Riddik, and smiled beneath his helmet as the Paladin kept the man pinned with the head of their powered sledge, “… Duties. Yes, I believe that’s the correct word.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” One of the members of the growing crowd dared to ask, “Railroad ain’t got nothin’ to do with Diamond City. Go bother Goodneighbor.”

One of the guards shifted nervously, their finger trained on the trigger of their gun, but made no move to fire.

“Is that so? See, now that’s rather curious, because we have it on good authority a transmission was received from here. A broadcast from the Railroad, as it were. As clear as a revelation.” Eleven placed his hands together and gave a deep sigh, “The Brotherhood means no harm to those who assist us. Adequate remuneration will be given for any information. Failure to comply, however, and your dazzling mayor will meet a rather abrupt end.”

Things were taking far too long for Riddik’s liking and Eleven’s constant dallying and flowery language was only aggravating their ire further. The Paladin lifted their sledge from McDonough’s chest and grabbed him firmly by the lapels of his coat. The back of his suit ripped at the seams as he was thrown forward across the dirt, landing not far from the seats of the noodle stand, rolling until he came to a stop upon his stomach.

“It would seem my Paladin’s patience has worn thin. Answer quickly, please.” Eleven prodded, and yet no one seemed to take the bait, “Oh, come now.”

\---

From atop Home Plate, seated on the remains of what looked to be a lawn chair (or detritus cobbled together to give them appearance of something chair-like), Deacon watched the scene unfold in the center of town. The Brotherhood had found them again, led by that Paladin that ruined North End Church in search of Turner. The sly agent wrung his hands in the cold and could only continue to spy as the mayor let out a loud yell as his forearm was caught under Riddik’s powered boot.

“Not good, not good, not good.” Deacon repeated like a mantra as he turned tail and raced inside Home Plate, the trap door leading down nearly hitting the top of his head as he raced on. He passed Hancock, who sat on the landing of the second floor, accidentally knocking the tricorn off the top of the ghoul’s head.

“Hey, what gives?” Hancock questioned as Deacon made no move to stop, turning the corner to find Desdemona and the others posthaste.

The ghoul grumbled and stood, cursing under his breath as his knees creaked despite his newer boots, and grabbed his hat from the bottom of the stairs. Leisurely he followed after Deacon, the weight of a few jet canisters in his breast pocket too tempting given the thoughts that still ran through his head, and yet he kept his hand from reaching for them.

It had been a few days since Nick had disappeared through the teleporter, and the only reason anyone believed him to be alive was from the readings feeding back from the Institute’s mainframe. There was no other word that followed, though, if he found Turner alright, or… well, if he had found Turner at all.

Hancock ran a hand down his scarred face as he knew whatever hit he’d taken earlier that morning had worn off, and left in its place a familiar anxiety.

As he took the corner, he found Deacon and the others gathered in a tight circle, the sunglass-clad agent feverishly waving his hands around as he spoke. The ghoul couldn’t help but notice as some of the other Railroad agents broke off from the group in a dash and began collecting various things throughout the room before disappearing down below through the hidden hatch in the floor -- something big was happening, and Hancock didn’t like being left out of the loop. Not one bit.

Keeping a relaxed air about him, Hancock joined in, “What’s got you all in a tizzy? Someone take one of your costumes?” He gave Deacon a light slap on the arm.

“I wish.” Deacon replied quickly, but kept his gaze on the other members of the Railroad, “Guys, we gotta move now. C’mon.”

Desdemona was next to interject, her face stern and features contorted into an unpleasant grimace. “You’re saying the same Brotherhood Paladin who took North End is right on our doorstep? What has to happen to get it through your head that Turner’s the one who-- ”

“Don’t say it, sister. Last warning.” Hancock was awake in a flash, the anxiety that once sat in the pit of his stomach now gone in an instant. He narrowed his ebon eyes dangerously, and if he still had nostrils they’d be flared as a battle of glares erupted between him and Desdemona.

What the ghoul mayor wouldn’t give to have his knife back in his hand at that moment. Though his shotgun was looking rather attractive, as well.  

“Nuh-uh, not right now. Someone out there is gonna squeal, and we have to get hiding if there’s a chance we’ll get out of here.” Deacon stood in front of Hancock, putting Desdemona out of the ghoul’s sight for a moment, and begged for reason. There wasn’t any time for infighting, not with the Brotherhood so close to catching them again.

Knowing Deacon was right, Hancock backed down, but his anger hadn’t dissipated in the slightest. All the talk Desdemona made over Turner ruining the Railroad, leaking their secrets, allowing the Brotherhood to track her down -- it was bullshit and they all knew it. The Railroad leader just wanted an out, an excuse for her shortcomings, and Turner was the perfect scapegoat.

“Then get your people down below.” Hancock added when Desdemona broke away, her hands furiously grabbing for any and all supplies she could carry. “Brotherhood boogieman comes a-knocking, they’ll think you caught wind and skipped town.”

Deacon neither agreed nor disagreed with Hancock, and without a word he threw open the hatch into the newly added basement to usher in a few of the other agents -- taking care to warn those already below to stay as quiet as possible. Diamond City was a ticking time bomb, and who knew how long they had left before their door came crumbling down again. “Dez, c’mon. We don’t have time.”

From across the room, Desdemona hurried, her arms full of various maps and contacts, letters and dead drops they’d collected or waited to send, and pushed past Hancock.

Disappearing into the darkness of the hatch, Deacon looked up to the ghoul curiously, “You comin’?”  

Part of Hancock knew he wasn’t in the right mind, that something must have been off about him that day, but he couldn’t move. He wouldn’t allow himself to hide away as the Brotherhood came traipsing into the Railroad’s home again, no matter how much Desdemona ruffled his feathers. He had enough of the worry and terror written on Turner’s face at the prospect of being caught by the Brotherhood Paladin after what they’d done to her in the past.

“Nah.” Hancock refused outright, and took a seat on a rather plush red chair just opposite the main door, the shotgun at his side resting against his thigh. Deacon looked despondent and it took quite a bit of his strength to keep him from making a sour face at the ghoul. He pulled a rug up and over the hatch as he prepared to enter himself, and looked out from over the top of his sunglasses. “Had enough of their shit. No more runnin’.”

Taking a few rungs down, Deacon watched Hancock and waited for the ghoul to change his mind. But he got his answer when the ghoul mayor simply took a tin of mentats from his pocket and popped a few into his mouth, crossing his ankles lazily as he gave his gun a once over.

With one last look, Deacon pulled the hatch down and disappeared into the basement, leaving Hancock alone with his thoughts, alone and waiting for the inevitable.

It only took a few minutes for a heavy knock to come upon the front door, metal upon metal, and despite the anger and fear Hancock felt bubbling up in his throat he remained steadfast where he sat. Checking his shotgun once more, he adjusted his tricorn and leant further into his seat, his finger ready on the trigger.

It was only a few more seconds when the door to Home Plate burst inwards, and aglow in the light of the early morning stood Riddik, a fresh smear of red splattered across their breastplate. Hancock couldn’t help but grin, knowing fully well the Paladin wasn’t expecting a ghoul of all people to greet them. Maybe someone like Deacon or even Turner herself, but not the mayor of Goodneighbor -- it was like a slap in the face.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Hancock mocked, burrowing deep into his seat, his legs crossed at the knee. Without waiting for the ghoul to continue, Riddik ducked and entered through the small doorway, their pauldrons scraping noisily on the doorframe. “Get you a drink? Gin or vodka? Or are you a whiskey kind of guy?”

Despite the size of the Paladin, Hancock noticed the shadows of two other knights just beyond the door. Obviously, things weren’t going to go his way but it was too late to back out, and he gave a cocksure smile to Riddik, a red canister of jet finding its way to his nimble fingers.

He huffed once, held it, and released it with a short chuckle, anything to keep up his façade of strength as the other two knights entered the room. It was then that Hancock knew he might have messed up, made an error in one of his calculations, but it didn’t much matter. He wasn’t going to let the Brotherhood get their hands on the Railroad, wasn’t going to tell them where Turner got off to -- if she was even still alive.

Waiting for one of the knights to step into his line of sight, the one with an IX painted on the chest plate of their armour, Hancock readied himself. He grew tense, his legs uncrossing in preparation to spring up and away from his seat. It was only when the knight came out from behind Riddik that he leapt from his seat, taking the chair in hand and launching it at the head of the unsuspecting knight.

Nine teetered backwards as the chair made contact with his head, knocking the helmet clean off where it rolled out the door. Eleven was the first to take a shot as Hancock scarpered away around the corner, just barely missing the ghoul. He did, however, manage to burn a few holes in the tails of his frock, to which the ghoul was more than slightly annoyed.

That was for another time, though.

When the laser fire stopped, Hancock took a deep breath and listened for the sounds of heavy, metal feet. But when there came none, he licked what remained of his lips and darted out from behind the corner to fire at the knight without his helmet.

Nine raised his arms to prevent the scattershot from reaching his face, but to no avail. He fell back against the wall with a raucous thud, hundreds of pounds coming down as he fell limp to the floor. Hancock didn’t have the time to celebrate taking one of them down as he nearly tripped to get away up the stairs to the second floor, the gunfire from the remaining knight too close for comfort.

Several shots blasted through the rickety boards of the second floor, sending splinters up into the air around Hancock. Backed away against the wall, his hat cattywampus on his brow, he steadied himself and waiting for the hail of bullets to stop again.

Streams of light flickered through the battered floorboards, small particles of dust flitting about in the air. It would have been rather pretty in any other circumstance -- preferably one that didn’t involve a painful death -- and Hancock had to hold back a cough. He double checked his gun again, and slammed it shut with a resounding click before sidling along the wall back to the stairs.

He could see the unmoving body of the knight through the dust just underneath the stairs, and could smell the copper that rose up to meet him. What he wasn’t expecting was to be sent forward onto his knees, the very foundation on which he stood shaking terribly.

Down below, Riddik slammed their sledge against the support beam of the second floor, blindly swinging into the miasma around them until a thunderous crack sounded through the room. Tumbling down with the floorboards, Hancock landed painfully on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.

He took in a gulp of dusty air to steady himself and attempted to push himself up onto his feet, but Riddik was quicker.

The ghoul was slammed back down to the floor by a heavy punch, Riddik’s fist pounding him back into position. Hancock let off another shot at the Paladin above him, the shot breaking apart futilely on their chest, and slammed the butt of his gun against those terrible golden lenses that looked to shine through the fog.

Riddik staggered back and raised a hand to their helm in mock-horror, the right lens of their helmet now marred with a hideous crack. The sight sent a grin to Hancock’s face, though the grin was far more pained as he realized several of his ribs were probably broken.

Furious, Riddik raised their powered sledge on high and prepared to slam it down against Hancock’s head, but stopped when the ghoul spoke evenly.

“You’re never gonna get her at this rate, you know that? Or any of the Railroad.” Hancock laughed and held at his side, his teeth clenched together painfully. “You take me out, what makes you think you’ll ever have a trail again, huh? You that stupid?” He wanted to say “rhetorical question” but held his tongue. There was only so much he could ride on when he was that close to being done-in.

Eleven strode forward and aimed down the sights of his gun, far too angered over the supposed death of Nine by some misshaped mutant. Hancock made a show of spitting out a clot of blood at the knight’s boots, smiling a Cheshire grin as he pulled himself up against the wall for support.

“Let me put the freak out of its misery, Paladin.” Eleven begged, his voice wavering.

Hancock made sure to blow a curt kiss.

Riddik held out their sledge to stop Eleven’s assault before it began, and watched the ghoul for several seconds. There was a trap -- there had to be. There was no way the ghoul would try to stop them if there wasn’t something at play in the background.

The Paladin had to think quickly before things fell out of their favour.

\---

The Institute was quiet, almost painfully so. Many of its human residents lay asleep while the tireless synths continued about their duties through the halls: cleaning, sanitizing, building, and repairing. The air was filled with the dull thrum of fans and pre-war technologies, the scent of plastic and metal wafting about.

 Ersatz gazed out from behind the corner of an adjoining hall and glanced this way and that, unsure if there was a Courser or uncooperative synth nearby. Even amongst its brethren, the Generation 1 synths were all too loyal to the Institute to help out the second generation line.

Back behind the corner, Turner struggled to pull up her pants in a quiet manner, jumping on one foot awkwardly as the end of her cropped leggings caught on her toes. Nick rolled his eyes and averted his gaze, only looking back to make sure the small agent didn’t fall back on her behind or into a rack of equipment. Being caught with one’s pants around one’s ankles wasn’t the way he wanted to go; especially not after all he’d been through to get there.

Turner was slow to pulling her britches all the way up despite the coy look Nick was giving her. He wasn’t one to talk, dressed down to nothing, naked as the day he was taken off the production line. Unconsciously, she fiddled with the hem of her pants, her cold fingers wringing into the fabric of her large coat as she smoothed it down over her thighs.

What would happen if they successfully escaped the Institute? Would another Courser come after them, and would that mean she couldn’t return to Diamond City for fear of the Railroad’s new home being found? The thoughts began to plague her as she stood still for a few seconds too long, her bottom lip curling inward without thinking.

And what of their new friend, Ersatz? The synth, as far as either her or Nick could tell, was helping them on its own volition, but Turner wasn’t sure in her own blind faith now that they roamed the halls freely. Initially, Nick seemed bothered by the other synth’s presence, but now? She couldn’t be so sure. And if Ersatz escaped with them, what would become of it? The Commonwealth, and the Wasteland as a whole, was unforgiving of those alien to its way of life -- and it had taken Nick years to earn what little trust he had from the residents of Diamond City. Perhaps it could join up with the Railroad, or maybe it could--

Turner took a moment to stare down at her feet in contemplation, rubbing her nose as it began to run in the dry cold of the underground halls. It wasn’t until she felt a hand on her shoulder that she looked up, locking eyes with the Clockwork Detective before quickly glancing away out of sudden embarrassment.

“You doin’ alright, kid?” he whispered as Ersatz took measured steps around to ensure they were alone.

Turner only nodded hesitantly and cleared her throat, and it was obvious Nick wasn’t convinced. There were too many things on her mind clouding what thoughts she had, thoughts that came like a bolt from the blue and sapped what excitement she had at finally reuniting with Nick and escaping. Too many things were happening at once, and she felt overcome with a terrible anxiety that filled her chest in a matter of seconds.

Seeing her eyes dart across the smooth flooring, Nick didn’t press the subject and gently laid a hand between Turner’s shoulders to lead her out into the hall beside him to the patiently waiting Ersatz.

The other synth noted the bare metal digits loosely hanging at the girl’s sleeve but remained steadfast in holding its tongue. It could watch from afar and observe all it wanted for the time being. It wasn’t its place to go asking questions that wouldn’t be answered.

As the trio continued along the dead halls, the pristine white of the walls and shining gunmetal of the floors began to blur together. At one point, having sworn she saw the same messy desks and terminals, Turner had to force herself to believe that they weren’t running around in circles, that the weight in her gut wasn’t right when it told her Ersatz was stalling for time.

Soon, though, they came upon rusted, though unsealed, maintenance doors. The yellow paint on its surface was chipped and faded, but the words “REACTOR” could be read clear as day on its metal surface. It squealed with disuse as both Turner and Nick pried open the doors, Ersatz standing idly by with a curious look on its face. Wide-eyed and fascinated, it couldn’t help but watch Turner’s face turn red and twist as she struggled to open the door, whereas Nick looked to do it with ease. And yet when the detective made a joke about her being less than “in shape” she could only stick her tongue out and make a noise.

Ersatz was fascinated.

“So, down to the reactor, then? You planning on blowing this place to kingdom come, or making sure the eggheads have hot water?” Nick jested as he stood in the threshold. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t exactly trust you.”

The smell of oil and copper wafted up to meet Turner’s nose, and she tucked her head inside the cramped elevator car to take a closer look as Nick and Ersatz had a stare-down. ‘I guess it’s like looking in a mirror,’ she thought, though Nick was far worse for wear than his pampered look-alike, ‘A broken mirror, maybe.’ She glanced back over her shoulder and noted the quirk Ersatz had to its head, its bright yellow eyes staring forward at Nick unabashedly.

“You mean you wouldn’t like a nice, hot bath, Nick?” Turner joked and slapped at his bare arm. “Warm up the old circuit board a bit?”

“The only one who needs a bath here is you.” His metal hand found its way to some of the matted fur rimming Turner’s hood, “I’d throw you in, clothes and all.”

A slight flush swept across her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but purse her lips and make a crude sound with her tongue. Nick only returned the favour, sans noise, and the two stayed that way for several seconds before Turner’s eyes wandered over to Ersatz -- where she found it standing there awkwardly with only the tip of its tongue protruding from between its lips.

She covered her mouth with her hand and stifled a quiet laugh as the other synth didn’t quite get what she and Nick were doing. It wanted to emulate as much as it could, but without actually understanding the nuances behind the action, Turner couldn’t help but find the whole thing far too adorable for her own good.

Peeking back into the elevator, Turner noted the panel to the side of the door only held three barely flickering buttons of interest: open doors, close doors, and a down arrow. “If you’re leading us to the reactor, does that mean we can sabotage it? Initiate some kind of evacuation?”

Ersatz nodded and took a step inside of the elevator car, waving its hand to follow suit. Turner and Nick didn’t budge an inch, both of them waiting for the other to make the first move to follow. When they stared the other synth down inside of the elevator, all they received was a simple thumbs-up and a nod, the glowing irises of its eyes disappearing as it blinked slowly.

“Sounds like a long-shot, but what else have we got? A naked synth, a Lilliputian and a mime -- sounds like the start of a bad joke.” Turner slapped at Nick playfully, hitting the exposed plastic of his chest.

It was nice to see a genuine smile and a small blush cross her features, her freckles blending into the light scarlet.

Nick wouldn’t complain if she did it more often.

“After you.” He conceded, and motioned his arm for Turner to file into the elevator first if only to put some space between him and Ersatz. For a quick second, he glanced back into the empty hall to ensure they weren’t being followed before he headed inside himself.

Once the door closed behind him, the elevator was bathed in an inky blackness. Turner had to hold back a snort as she stared up to where Nick’s face would have been, only to be greeted by a pair of bright, gold eyes standing out against the darkness. Another pair of eyes moved to greet her, and she couldn’t help but cover her mouth to keep herself from laughing.

“You don’t come with a dimmer function, do you?” she asked, and blindly felt where Nick stood, her fingers touching bare metal through one of the tears in his chest.

“Can’t say I do, smartass.” Nick retorted, thin digits curling around her wrist to pull away the probing fingers. Part of him didn’t want to admit that the feeling of her short nails against his frame sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, but he chalked it up to… he couldn’t think of an excuse.

He would think about it later, he told himself. Later, when life, death, and escape weren’t a factor.

\---

The elevator chugged slowly downwards with the occasional worrisome rattle or two, until finally the door creaked open once more to reveal the unseen underbelly of the Institute. When compared to the clean lines and preserved appeal of the halls above, Turner couldn’t help but be reminded of the Commonwealth that stood beyond the walls of their current prison.

All around her sat rust and decay, like the interior of the Prydwen or down under North End Church, and the scent of copper was stronger than ever before. Under her nails, grime and flaking metal gathered as she ran her hand across a guard rail, her eyes trailing to a pool of water beneath the corrugated walkway under her feet.

“Hell of a change of scenery.” Nick could feel the walkway shift under his bare feet, the old metal groaning from his added weight.

Ersatz gingerly stepped past them and waved for them to follow behind once more. A plethora of walkways lay before them as the silent synth led them deeper into the underworld. It knew exactly where it was headed, barely registering the constant clanking of both Turner and Nick’s feet on the walkway behind it.

It wasn’t until they came to a large, open room that Ersatz came to a stop, its hand shooting out to point at a large machine on the far wall. It glowed in the low light of the high vaulted room, the air stagnant and warm.

A noticeable electricity drifted through the air and clung to Turner’s skin. It was the reactor, of that much she was certain, and Ersatz looked more than ready to do anything to help.

She stepped away from Nick’s side and craned her head to take in the whole of the reactor, her face glowing in the light that peered from the window on its front. “So how do we,” she waved her hands about willy-nilly, unsure of what words to use, “you know?”

Ersatz continued to stare at her, its eyes wide and inquisitive, and reached for the button clasp just under its chin. It unzipped the top portion of its suit, and thinking the synth had misunderstood her, Turner stepped forward to stop it, “No, no, I didn’t mean like that. I meant--” she stopped short, however, when it produced a small grenade from the lining of its suit, the toxic green of plasma illuminating its hand. “Oh.”

“And here I thought you and Hancock were on the regular.” Nick joked halfheartedly, “You’ll have to remind me to get you two a how-to book.” The thought of ‘might have to read a few pages myself’ crossed his mind, but he let the sentiment go unsaid.

Ersatz closed its suit back up after pulling another clutch of grenades from inside and handed them to Turner, leading Nick to wonder why the other synth was walking around packing so much heat. Maybe it had planned to sabotage the Institute all along and was just waiting for an excuse. Maybe the exhilaration of something so dangerous sitting on its person was all that got it through the day. Or maybe Ersatz had more secrets than it let on.

Either way, Turner and Nick watched as Ersatz turned and bent low to pick up a metal rod from a small collection seated at the base of the reactor. At some time, someone was building onto the walkway for whatever reason and never finished their task, leaving the unused equipment behind.

Ersatz stood tall and banged the metal rod against the side of the reactor -- a hollow, tinny noise resounding through the room.

It continued to tap gently on the sides like some kind of odd ritual or out of uncharacteristic playfulness, until it came to the clear front of the reactor. Out of nowhere, Ersatz swung hard against the thick glass, and continued to slam the rod with such ferocity that Turner took a step back out of sudden fear when the casing shattered at last.

A blast of heat jetted out from the new opening, and Nick pulled Turner back several more feet, careful not to disrupt the plasma grenades in her arms. Sensing it had done enough damage to the reactor’s door, Ersatz looked to them and dropped the rod to the ground with a loud clank.

And then it waited. Waited for Turner to step forward and throw the grenades into the waiting, proverbial fire.

“Are you ready to run, Nick?” she asked as she inched forward bit by bit, nearly blinded by the searing white heat that lay before her. Ersatz’ eyes were almost lost in the light that emitted from the reactor’s open maw, its suit positively glowing as it stood unfazed so close to the wreckage it caused.

It looked almost proud standing tall next to the very thing that would upend the Institute in a matter of seconds, and Turner thought about whether she meant the reactor or herself.

Figuring there was no other out, Turner swallowed hard and made sure to look back at Nick as the heat of the reactor seared into her cheeks. When he nodded in affirmation, she knew she was prepared to go through with it if it meant their freedom.

And without another thought, Turner stared back into the blinding heat and watched as the toxic green that sat curled preciously in her arms flew toward the fire.

\---

Up Next!

Chapter 22!

With Hancock taken and the Railroad still left waiting with no word, Riddik sets their final plan into motion! And when Turner and Nick find themselves alone, can they admit things they’re still holding back from one another? Will they finally be able to say the Institute is gone for good?

Tune in next time for Chapter 22: De-Institutionalized!

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://esuerc.tumblr.com/post/155835571052/privateengine-kinda-loving-esuerc-right-now-and 
> 
> http://esuerc.tumblr.com/post/155232077767/littttleduck-esuerc-littttleduck-esuerc
> 
> http://esuerc.tumblr.com/post/154850897872/pirate-cashoo-so-these-are-some-sketches-that


	22. De-Institutionalized!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get quicker on updating! I can't do it once a week like I did when I first started but I'm getting better. 
> 
> Good news, though! I finished up my chemotherapy! The lymph node, when I was originally diagnosed with cancer (Hodgkin's Lymphoma) was 1.5" by 1". The scan I had last month showed it shrunk down to .8cm by 1.5cm! I've had two sessions more since then! OwO So, the hard stuff is out of the way for now! 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me!

Fanart of Turner! You guys have been amazing! I love all the gifts you've given me! 

http://red-flare-art.tumblr.com/post/157666203189/drew-a-little-turner-for-esuerc-in-the-same-style

http://privateengine.tumblr.com/post/157798144784/littttleduck-privateengine-littttleduck

http://finnecstudios.tumblr.com/post/157845692791/i-promised-that-id-draw-turner-for-esuerc-a-long

More fanart at the bottom! Thank you guys for being so awesome! 

\--

And so, they ran.

Once the plasma grenades met the searing, white-hot heat of the reactor, Turner grabbed for Ersatz and Nick, and dashed from the inevitable hell fire behind her. The metal floor under her feet shook violently as they exited the room less than gracefully, the detective keeping her from running headlong into the railing that would send her teetering off the catwalk and down into the water below.

Moments later, a head-splittingly loud siren wailed through the underbelly of the Institute, the hall now dyed a deep sanguine as several red lights illuminated the walls. Turner steadied herself and pulled away from Nick’s chest to look back at the wreckage that lay in the room behind them, a fiery inferno now engulfing whatever lay inside.

Without warning, Ersatz tore forward and motioned for them to continue with them, leading them back to the awaiting elevator too far away for comfort. Another explosion rang out and shook the whole of the underground, the lights dotting the walls flickering on and off as the power began to fluctuate.

“You’d think the bombs dropped again with the noise that thing’s making!” Nick could barely spit out as he spotted the open doors of the elevator not far off, Ersatz already waiting for them to join it.

“They kinda did!” Turner was quick to correct, only guessing the noise she heard at their back must have been close to what the world sounded like over two hundred years ago. “I hope this works.”

They slid into the elevator together and made sure the doors slid shut firmly as heat began to approach them; the rumbles far too close for comfort. It wasn’t until they were bathed in darkness once more that they worried the elevator would even function, but luckily it began its ascent almost immediately.

Turner fell back against the wall and caught her breath, pressing her cheek against the cool metal as she could still feel the heat of the flames on her face. If she didn’t know any better, she could say any blushes she had from that moment forward were just unfortunate burns. As temporary as they were.

The elevator shook again with their combined weight as they neared the top, and Turner wished they had only a few minutes longer for her heart to slow down even just a small bit. But as the doors open, the scene they saw downstairs was only tenfold above.

The once dim lights of the atrium now flared an angry scarlet as Institute scientists ran this way and that. Their feverish faces betrayed them as the fear in their eyes was all-too obvious. They hadn’t been expecting a catastrophic failure of their own design, and now they were paying the price for their negligence.

Turner righted herself as several suited scientists ran past them toward the door leading to the reactor, and unbeknownst to them, their doom. Ersatz, on the other hand, looked to be the picture of tranquility, its eyes aimed straightforward and its face an unreadable mask.

Nick, though, kept a hand knotted in the fabric of Turner’s coat, almost afraid that if he let go for even a second, she’d be taken away again. He needn’t not voice this, as Turner felt the pull at her shoulder all the same, her green eyes meeting his gold ones knowingly.

As the mayhem around them continued, Turner tapped Ersatz on the back firmly and shouted over the noise, “Tell me you’ve still got a plan. I don’t think we should be standing around in one place for too long.”

Another group of Institute scientists, this time flanked by a gathering of synths, made their way toward the central glass column in the atrium. Into the elevator, they filed one-by-one inside, and a part of the large group that had gathered on the ground began their ascent as the others waited anxiously for their turn.

Ersatz started forward and led the two of them off to another hall, the scene in the atrium still visible even from where they scurried. Turner looked up at the various trees that dotted the grass covered ground of the hall, surprised at how nicely the vegetation grew with such artificial conditions. She would have loved if, for a moment, she could stop and run her hand across the cool of the grass, feel the waxy textures of the leaves under her fingers like she’d only read about in books and terminals. But it wasn’t to be so.

Through a cramped tunnel, Ersatz led them, the walls riddled with decay and disuse. It was obvious from the dingy conditions of the stairwell at the end of the short hall, that the tunnel was almost, if ever, used. Turner supposed it only made sense in a weird way. Why leave the Institute and all it offered if one could just as easily send a synth in one’s place?

Turner and Nick gazed up at the various floors they’d have to climb to get to wherever Ersatz was leading them, a feat the two synths could accomplish with ease. The already weakened human of their group, however, held doubts immediately about whether she could keep up.

Swallowing the lump in her throat and steadying her breaths, Turner hurried after Nick and Ersatz. After only three or so landings, she could feel the burn in the backs of her legs, the sting in her throat and lungs. She was far from out-of-shape, but her days stuck in an Institute cell left her weaker than she first thought.

Nick stopped to glance back at her, waiting at the base of another set of stairs as the world glowed red around him. The warning lights around them continued on even in that abandoned section of the Institute, a sure sign that the place hadn’t been blown to kingdom come quite yet.

After a few seconds of watching her struggle, Nick took Turner’s small wrist in hand, helped her up the last three flights, and hauled her onto the final landing of the stairwell. Turner tried her best to steady her breathing as her heart raced painfully, the beginning of a headache settling in her temples. But if it meant she was alive for that much longer, then she wouldn’t complain about the discomfort.

“You guys have it easy. You don’t,” she sucked in a deep gulp of air, “have any lungs.” Her thighs twitched and her chest heaved, and yet she continued on with them as they ventured down another reddened hall.

“Gonna have to oil my joints, if it’s any consolation.” Nick responded, and pushed Turner ahead of him so she wouldn’t fall behind again. He was careful not to push on her back, noting the way she hissed and recoiled when he initially touched her. He’d have to check that later, he told himself, and make sure it wasn’t worse than she let on.

At the end of the hall, Ersatz signaled for them to stop and wait. With a short tug, the synth slid open an unseen panel, the rust having covered up any indication that it had been there, and peeked out at what lay beyond. Turner scurried up beside them and ducked under their arm to see as well, the white light of the next room a welcome sight from the red of the hall.

Scientists flew across the room in a hurried fit, all them running toward the unseen teleporter pad at the far end of the space, the very same one through which Nick arrived. One-by-one, they disappeared either alone or with a synth escort at their side, until at last the room lay empty and silent.

When all was fully quiet, Ersatz pulled open the remainder of the panel and led Turner and Nick through. Turner took the initiative to run forward to the terminal in the center of the room, a bundle of cables running from the back and toward the stilling humming teleporter. Fingers hovering above the keys in a small dance, she didn’t quite know what to do.

Luckily for her, Ersatz came to her side and gently moved her away and back over to Nick, raising on finger as if telling her to wait.

“You know how to work this thing?” she asked as she walked up to the pad, Nick following in tow.

“It had better. I don’t much care for wild goose chases.” Nick whispered close to her ear. His coming to the Institute had been relatively easy, all things considered, and back then he hadn’t thought too much about an exit strategy. Now that the destruction of the Institute was on the line, a way out was all that really mattered.

Fate had decided the room had been quiet for too long, and the elevator behind the trio descended back down into the atrium. If another set of scientists were making their way up into the room, then they didn’t have much time left to make their own escape.

Turner quickly leapt away from teleporter pad toward the elevator, hoping she could spy through the glass column whatever had called the car down. “We gotta hurry.” She ushered as she pulled away from the cold of the glass, her skin stuck somewhat against its smooth surface.

Ersatz waltzed up to her as she looked about for something to help aid them, their face unreadable as they dug into the confines of their uniform once more.

“If you pull another grenade out of there,” Turner began, still baffled as to why the synth kept the things on their person. Ersatz surprised her none by pulling out but one plasma grenade, the contours of their faces bathed in a familiar green glow. “Okay, seriously, why do you have those?”

Ersatz raised one finger to their mouth to shush her, but it only made Turner purse her lips in annoyance. She and Nick would have to sit the synth down after they got out, make them talk. The image in her mind was a funny one – to any outside person, the scene might have looked like two parents scolding a child. A fully grown, synthetic, plastic-skinned child.

Nick shook his head, knowing her question would go unanswered for the time being, and looked over a map of Boston on the terminal. There were numerous spots that had pinged after the first wave of Institute scientists managed to escape. It would do them no good to try and follow after one of the groups – who knew how vindictive the Institute was even when their lives were on the line. What would stop them from attacking him and Turner the second they came into view?

No, Nick decided. He would have to choose someplace else. Somewhere the three of them could easily find a place to hunker down for a spell before deciding where they needed to head next. Assuming, of course, Ersatz decided to stay with their small, ragtag team. The synth detective didn’t much care either way. He wanted to get back to Diamond City, get Turner back to the safety of the Railroad, back to the anxious wreck that was Hancock.

Ersatz tore open the door to the elevator shaft with ease and gazed down into the bright lights that lined the top of the car at the bottom. Turner joined them and watched as the synth gently threw the grenade into the shaft. The toxic explosive descended rapidly, the walls of the shaft alight in a bright green glow, before at last it made it to the bottom. Whatever poor souls were trying to make their way up would have to find an alternate route just like they had… if they had the time to do so.

“Got it!” Nick announced, and Turner tore herself away from Ersatz to come up at his side. “If you don’t mind me sayin’, I’d rather not end up as target practise for raiders. Managed to pinpoint a spot not too far from the Castle, if I’m reading this thing right.” He pushed away from the monitor as the room began to buzz with energy, “Hopefully, they’ll take us in.”

The clockwork detective started the relay and locked the coordinates into place. The green countdown clock started just as his hands left the keyboard, a little less foreboding than the red lights of the hallway, but stress-inducing all the same.

“Two synths, one naked as the day he was taken off the line, and the other mute as a broken radio? And me?” Turner started, a lopsided grin on her face, her cheeks reddened with excitement, “I’m sure they’ll let us in. Nothing suspicious about us at all.” She blinked and walked around the terminal toward the waiting teleporter pad, “But they know you, right, Nick? Sure, you don’t have the hat or the coat, but you’re hard to mistake for anyone else. ‘Sides, they’d see you coming first. Have to get you some glasses like Deacon.”

The comment made Nick smile shortly. Turner was doing her best to make him feel somewhat better, for all that it was worth. It was a start, to be sure, but if it meant she was slowly making her way back to her sarcastic demeanor, he’d let her have it.

Nick joined her inside the metal chamber that housed the teleporter, the whole of his frame tickled by the electricity that filled the room. At the doorway, Turner looked out to Ersatz, the other synth watching the smoke that rose from the elevator shaft that was now slowly filling the room. It didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, but if she stayed any longer she might just choke.

“C’mon, Ersatz.” She called, and banged her fist on the side of the metal door frame.

“This train’s about to leave without you.” Nick added, sure to keep Turner from walking back out into the open. He wouldn’t risk her not coming along with him to chase after some flighty bot with a penchant for explosives.

Slowly, Ersatz walked from the elevator and was nearing the teleporter when a noise caught their attention. The unmistakable sound of Generation 2 synths echoed into the room from the stairwell through which they entered, the voices too close for comfort.

Worriedly, Turner nearly ran from the teleporter as the synth walked out of sight. Nick, however, stopped her short just as the buzz in the room came to a head, and kept her in place with an arm around her shoulders. “Let ‘em, kid.” He understood the look of distress that crossed her features, but didn’t relent his hold around her.

The sound of laser fire sounded next, beams of light shooting out across the room. Somewhere out of sight, Ersatz could lay a heap of scrap, but there wasn’t much either Turner or Nick could do.

The voices of the opposing synths grew as the shots continued, the room filled with noise and destruction.

And there was nothing.

Nothing, followed by the unmistakable, nauseating pull of being torn apart and recreated that only teleportation could convey, then weightlessness.

Then sand.

Gritty, wet sand stuck to the side of Turner’s face as she landed in a heap on the shoreline, the cold wind of the night blowing in off the land. It took her a moment to realise the strange lapping at her legs were the soft waves of the ocean before she scurried away from the water’s edge like a mirelurk. She scuttled awkwardly and flailed at the cold water on her legs, her socks and shoes soaked.

She caught the bile that threatened to rise up in her throat, and deposited herself on her back to let the world stop spinning for a few moments longer. Her cheeks burned and the ringing in her ears was nearly unbearable, but Turner was alive and free at last. Sure, the cold wasn’t much different than what the Institute had offered, but the wind was there. The beautiful wind of the outside world.

Nick must have been somewhere nearby from the sound of it, though Turner could hardly bring herself to open her eyes much less turn her head from the inviting cool of the sand.

The synth watched the small Railroad agent collect herself. He had no idea how she felt, he realized. He hardly had organs or fleshy bits to throw around, and the sensation of being zapped out of the Institute hadn’t been any different than what he experienced the first time. But for Turner? He wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to stay for a few more minutes on the ground.

Kneeling down, he placed a hand atop her head and rustled her hair, “You alright, kid?”

Turner cracked one eye open and stared at him silently for several seconds. Right before answering him with a rather long “pfffbbbllt”.

Nick hadn’t expected any different.

Smiling, he helped her up onto her feet and held her steady as she put a hand to her head. Her ears still rung, but the sensation had gone off a bit. “If it makes you feel any better, I think I fried a few of my circuits back there.” He chuckled as she uselessly swiped at his chest, her fingers stuck at the hole just under his ribs.

“Sure it was just a few circuits? We’ll have to get you a tune-up, then, old man. Maybe get the Atom Cats to give you an upgrade.” Turner tugged at his plastic skin and chuckled quietly, “I’m thinking hot rod flames.”

Turner had to admit, she was still reeling. They actually managed to escape the Institute! And, thanks to Ersatz, there was no way they would be bothering anyone now. No more replacements, no more worries about Coursers, no more having to wipe the memories of synths. Yes, innocents probably lost their lives in the process, she didn’t doubt one bit, but if it meant that, as a whole, the Commonwealth was safer for it…

What would she tell Deacon? There’s no way she could hope to manage to top one of his stories. Not at the level of bullshit at which he operated.

But Turner loved it all the same.

No matter what she said, Desdemona would no doubt try to brand her as a replacement even with Nick at her side. But there was no way she could deny the impact she and the synth left in their wake. The only caveat to the situation was that Ersatz was nowhere to be found.

Turner hoped the synth, despite their suspicious behaviour, managed to escape somehow.

Her hand fell from Nick’s chest to bury itself in the pocket of her coat, suddenly cold. “I hope Ersatz is alright.”

“Hard to say.” Was all Nick could add, but seeing Turner’s downtrodden expression he stepped forward and placed his bare hand on her crown. Rustling her hair again, his hand slid down the side of her face and gave her cheek a soft pat, “With what they’ve got hidden in that fancy suit of theirs, I’m sure they’ll find a way out.”

That looked to have helped somewhat, and Turner let her shoulders fall with a deep sigh. “My feet are cold.”

Nick searched the horizon to see if he’d met his mark, grinning when he caught the familiar glow of lanterns not far off in the distance. Even in the fog, the silhouette of the Castle was hard to mistake. “We’re not too far away from the Minutemen’s post. Hopefully, they’ll lend us a hand. Can’t have you freezin’ out here.”

Rubbing at her arms, Turner pulled her hood up onto her head, “What, not gonna offer me your coat?” she joked, and scanned his rather exposed form, only stopping when she met the dry look on Nick’s face.

“Don’t push your luck, kid.”

\---

Together, Turner and Nick began their trek down the shore just as the fog grew thicker, the glow of the faraway lanterns eerie dots in the distance. The wind coming in off the water was heavy with salt and whipped at Turner’s already reddened cheeks. Her nose ran no matter how many times she rubbed at it with her sleeve, and now nearly the whole of her face was scarlet. She was no better than a five-year old in that regard, but her coat sleeves were hardly a problem after what they’d just been through. Having to explain the ugly bruise on her back to Hancock would be an interest conversation, and one she wasn’t particularly looking forward to having.

Turner’s thoughts went to the ghoul, then. How many times had she told him she’d be alright when she ventured off? Not that she had much choice in the matter when it came to a Courser, but nonetheless, she couldn’t help but worry she was taking years off whatever extended life he had. From what she could remember, she could count maybe three separate occasions she told him she’d come back, and she hadn’t lied yet. She returned worse for wear, sure, but she came back nevertheless.

“How was Hancock doing when you left?” she asked Nick after she caught him staring.

He ran a hand across the back of his neck and blinked several times before he replied, “I’d hate to speak for him, but I’d say rough. Asked me to promise that if I couldn’t find you, or you’d been…” Nick’s luminescent eyes darted down the sandy road, searching for the right words, “Told him I’d kill the Courser who took you. Can’t say I followed up on that, but it wasn’t really the priority.”

Looking back over to Turner, he found her close at his side, and even in the moonlight her green eyes were dark. “When we get back, I need to talk to him,” she began, “about the things I’ve told you. About Metro, the Brotherhood, anything I’ve been keeping from him.” She closed her eyes and held onto Nick’s arm as they continued down the path, the Castle now only minutes away.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. First, we get you somewhere warm to settle down for the night, and we move on from there.” Turner nodded but didn’t remove her hand from his arm, her fingers not even making it fully around Nick’s wrist.

The crumbling walls of the Castle came into view as they approached through the fog, the tinny sound of the Minutemen radio echoing off the stonework walls. Positioned outside the main gate stood a young man, a sputtering turret at his side and his rifle held tightly in his unsure hands. At the approach of two unknowns, he raised his gun and aimed shakily, waiting for Turner and Nick to come closer so he could see exactly what he was up against.

A naked synth and a shivering ragamuffin must not have been on his list of things to look out for.

The guard attempted to stop Turner and Nick as they approached the stone archway, and with gun drawn and readied he aimed squarely down the barrel. “We don’t want any trouble with the Institute. If you leave now, I-I promise I won’t say anything.” His hands shook and his arms trembled, his eyes open wide at the less-than-threatening Turner.

With one step forward to explain things, Nick came to an abrupt stop and threw his hands up defensively as the Minuteman’s rifle hummed loudly after several hasty cranks. “Easy now. I’m a friend of the General and Preston Garvey. We don’t mean any trouble.”

A flash of recognition passed the Minuteman’s face, and he leant back slightly to lower the barrel of his gun. Afraid to keep his eyes off the two of them for too long, he yelled over his shoulder into the courtyard, “Preston, I need a hand here!”

Seconds later, the General’s right hand man appeared at the entryway, his eyes sunken and tired. “This synth c-claims to know you. Institute, I tell you.”

Preston laughed and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, tipping his hat at Nick and Turner in the process. “Good to see you again, Nick. And your friend, too.” He looked to have noticed the detective’s severe lack of clothing and the girl’s general dishevelment, “You two alright? Or are you going for a new, au-naturale look?”

Turner stifled a giggle at the quip, somewhat upset she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“I like to air out the old pistons every so often. Give the hard drive some fresh air.” Nick corrected and crossed his arms across his chest. He still felt exposed, less so than when he’d left the Railroad safe house, but too dressed down for his tastes.

“We spent the day sunbathing.” Turner added, her face obviously reddened from the cold and not the ineffective sun of winter, “Figured he could do with a tan.” She patted at the detective’s arm, and Nick sent her a playful look before his attention turned back to Preston.

“You think we can bunk here for the night? Hate to impose, but we’re a little worse for wear.”

“I’ll say.” Preston gave a short laugh and nodded his head toward the courtyard, “You’re always welcome here. Follow me.”

The trio headed into the courtyard of the Castle, the walls lit my numerous lanterns and flood lights that had been jury-rigged into the stone. A small crop was growing against one of the walls, enough food for more than ten or so people from what Turner could tell. If the amount of crop growing was any indication, either the Minutemen went hungry quite often or their numbers were smaller than she thought.

Away from the wind, Preston led them down an inner hall, though the cold still nipped at Turner’s wet feet and exposed shins. She thought back to the last time she’d been at the Castle with Nick and Hancock, remembered how the Minuteman General wasn’t long for the world.

Turner wasn’t sure if Nick had realized it yet, but the General may have already passed during their time away. Or perhaps he already figured and was staying quiet. She didn’t dare bring it up, too afraid to ask out of place about it.

For now, she focused on the dirty toes of her sneakers and followed at Nick’s back, only coming to a stop when they arrived in a small, quaint room. Toward the end of the long hallway, they were far from the barracks of the other Minutemen sleeping, but close enough that they could hear distant chatter from down the way.

When everything was said and done, Preston told Turner where she could get clean, and left her and Nick alone. Wasting no time, she trotted off with her bag in hand to search out a well-needed bath, Nick settling down on the soft, patchwork quilt covering the bed against the far wall of the room.

The synth knew it would be a while before Turner returned to the room, and he was thankful the Minutemen allowed them a place for the night. In the Commonwealth, such generosity was rarely seen, and he was grateful for what they had been offered. He’d have to remember to pay Preston back somehow in the future.

\---

Having cleaned herself and her clothes, Turner left them to dry as she replaced them with a thinner set from her bag. The night was proving to be colder than she anticipated, and deep down she hoped the blanket on the bed in their room was thicker than it looked.

She pulled Nick’s teddy from her bag before clasping it back shut, and held it to her chest tightly. Childish as it may have been, a good night’s sleep with a stuffed animal was just what she needed.

She returned to their shared room to find Nick staring down at his hands, having adorned a simple pair of slacks and a worn shirt – something Preston gave him, no doubt. He was almost back to his normal self, sans his trench coat, and seemed to be in higher spirits now that he wasn’t so exposed.

She closed the door behind her to keep out the wind, and breathed a sigh of relief, “You should try the bath. Nothin’ gets you goin’ quite like ice-cold water.” Turner rubbed her arms through her sleeves to emphasize her point. “Is that blanket warm?”

“I’m not the best person to ask, kid.” Nick laughed, and patted the spot next to him, “It could be made of asbestos for all I know.”

Sitting down next to Nick on the bed, she waited a moment before leaning over to put her head against his shoulder, her teddy in her lap. Without her coat on, she was even smaller than before, and after her bath the growing bruise on her back ached more than ever.

Nick said nothing as the two of them sat there, a welcome silence so each of them could gather their thoughts. “You should get some sleep.” He finally mustered, too afraid to ask anything else of the girl leaning heavily against him. “Gotta head back to Diamond City tomorrow. Can’t have you droolin’ all over Hancock.”

“He’d probably like that.” Turner replied sleepily, and placed one foot over the other. Grabbing Nick’s right hand as he nervously kneaded at the mattress, she stilled the metal digits. “You ever think back to how we met?” she asked as she moved his fingers around, and watched the metal rods in his palm move in tandem.

Turner wondered how Nick’s body actually worked. There was no wiring that ran through his hand, no cables, nothing save a few metal rods. And yet she could tell he felt her fiddling with his fingers as though he had flesh and bone. She doubted she’d ever understand, and doubted even more if Nick knew himself.

“You were bein’ a nosy bot.” she laughed and then quickly silenced herself. Sleep wasn’t too far off, a weight finding its way to settle in her limbs.

“S’what a detective does. Granted, I shouldn’t have gone into your room the way I did, but it felt sensible at the time. Remember you throwin’ a clock at me.”

“Didn’t think I’d ever end up like this after starting with the Railroad. Not with me worrying about the Brotherhood, Metro, and Riddik.” Turner suddenly sat up straight, as quick and as unexpected as a bolt of lightning, and let go of Nick’s hand.

She stood and began to pace across the small room, teddy clutched at her chest, “Riddik’s still out there. They’re not gonna stop until they catch me.”

Nick’s gaze followed her, unsure of what to say. The Institute had been bad enough, but compared to the destruction the single Brotherhood Paladin left in their wake, they had been a walk in the park. Riddik was nothing short of a monster, Turner’s own personal bogeyman. And as the detective watched her pace, his glowing irises following her from wall to wall, he could see the fear growing tenfold on her face.

“Kid.” He called, trying to think of what to say. But Turner didn’t stop, one of her hands running through her still damp hair.

“What if they manage to find the safe house in Diamond City? Like, what if Maxson sends more than just Riddik? I’d like to think he’d just give up before sending that kind of manpower just to get at me.” The teddy at her chest bowed around her arms as she squeezed it tighter.

“Kid.” Nick tried again, Turner’s cheeks now a bright red as she became more and more flustered by the second.

“I don’t even understand what he wants. I do, but I don’t.” she was rambling now. The words had been pent up, and she knew she sounded awful. The words coming out of her mouth were thoughts that had been bothering her ever since she left the Brotherhood behind, “It was never going to be that way between us, not after what he did to Metro. And I know that’s why he didn’t kill me when he had the chance the night before I met you.” All that pent-up frustration in her chest was coming to a head at last, and in front of Nick no less. “Riddik won’t let Maxson try again – I know they won’t. They’d bring me back to the Prydwen in pieces just to spite the Elder.”

“Turner.” Nick stood and stopped her pacing, getting her to look up at him. “It’s alright. You’ve got me and Hancock watchin’ your back. You’ve got Deacon and the others in the Railroad, too. We won’t let them get you.” Turner scanned the wrinkles in Nick’s shirt, too embarrassed, ashamed even, by her ramblings to glance up at him. “You’re not gonna be alone in this. Alright?”

Turner rubbed at her nose again with the sleeve of her shirt, her eyes and cheeks hot with pent-up… fear? Hopelessness? She nodded her head and tried her best to control her breathing, letting Nick pull her closer.

He hugged her tight, her face buried in the collar of his shirt, her fingers clutching at his back. Turner felt awful that he had seen her in such a way, that she let her emotions get the best of her and flood out all at once. She wanted to make a sarcastic quip, anything to clear the air, but it would have been too out of place.

She didn’t think about how long they stood there like that, and only noticed when Nick sat her on the bed and kneeled down in front of her. For once, she could joke that he saw her the way she saw everyone else, always having to crane her head to see anyone. But she understood what he meant by the gesture. For once, she could be bigger than she thought of herself. For once, she had someone looking up to _her_.

“All that sarcasm is a front, huh? Deep down, you’re a softie.” Turner laughed at Nick’s comment, but didn’t deny it. She was more sarcastic and passive-aggressive than most, and part of it was to hide how scared she really was. And yet, she couldn’t quite bring herself to admit it.

Nick brushed Turner’s choppy bangs away from her face and saw just how reddened she’d gotten. A good night’s sleep would do her well, but he knew better than to leave her alone – not then, and probably not for a while. “You should get some sleep. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

To emphasis his point, he leant forward and gently kissed her, taking her small hand in his. And at that token of affection, Turner reciprocated for a moment longer before she embraced him around his neck, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. If she were any heavier, she would have pushed the both of them to the floor. But she was content enough where she was.

“I miss your coat.” She chuckled quietly, and placed her hand on Nick’s bare head, “And your hat.” She could feel him laugh, but neither of them relented from the embrace. “Hancock’s is bigger, though.”

“Very funny.”

\---

Up next!

Chapter 23: Readying Assault

When Turner and Nick return to Diamond City to find Hancock has been taken by Paladin Riddik, there’s not much time left to act. Turner knows if they don’t hurry, the ghoul mayor just might be a repeat of Metro!

\---

Even more fanarts! 

http://littttleduck.tumblr.com/post/157484803371/esuerc-gift-for-littttleduck-w-turner-wants

http://syndrops.tumblr.com/post/157509813971/okay-so-i-know-i-dont-normally-post-art-but-ive


	23. Readying Assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, it's been a while since I've updated!
> 
> But good news! MY CANCER TREATMENT IS DONE! I just had the porticath removed for my chest back in September, and I'm on the road to recovery! I'm sorry for taking so long to get everything updated with this story, but it's not abandoned! I'm gonna finish it, and work on the sequel, Call of Far Harbor! 
> 
> I graduated with my Bachelor's in Animation and Fine Art, too! So, that's neat! 
> 
> Thank you for all the support you guys have shown me with all the kudos and fanart! It means the absolute world to me!

\---

**Chapter 23: Readying Assault**

\---

Through the wee hours of the night, Nick hadn’t moved an inch from his spot on the bed. Beside him, Turner was snuggled under the thick patchwork quilt, a brown tuft of hair poking out from under the covers the only indication that she was even there. The detective kept his promise to see that she wasn’t left alone, but resigned himself to sitting atop the covers despite Turner’s insistence it was fine for him to snuggle under them.

Some things would need more time, as silly as he thought it might seem, and he knew the kid was more worried about him getting cold than anything else. Still, he stayed where he sat and rested his eyes, running a few long-overdue diagnostics.

Sure that she wouldn’t wake, when the sounds of morning chatter drifted down the hall, Nick slid from the bed as easily as he could. Luckily, Turner hadn’t moved in the slightest as he quietly walked toward the door. Lifting it by the handle to keep it from dragging against the stonework floor, he opened it and let in the first trickles of morning light.

He needed desperately to walk around and clear his head, grab a smoke, anything really.

And he thought, perhaps, the welcome chill of a winter’s morning would do just that.

The quiet drum of the Minutemen radio played over the soft wind that came in off the ocean as Nick walked into the courtyard. Not too many of the Minutemen themselves were awake, but on the parapets, he could see Preston already at his post.

Nick had to give him credit – Preston wanted nothing more to ensure the safety of those around him even at the expense of his own comfort and health. It was admirable, to say the least, and the synth knew someday the Minutemen would have it in them to expand. Even more, the Minutemen needed a new General after the passing of the survivor of Vault 111, and there he watched, atop the parapets.

Grabbing a smoke from a small group that had gathered around the large hole in the Castle’s walls, Nick took a leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the old construct. The ocean was quiet that morning, gentle waves lapping up onto the shoreline only to recede back moments later. It was mornings like those that he was almost upset he spent so long in Diamond City behind a desk, away from the danger that was Boston Commons.

Nick stood at the grass line and watched the waves for a time as he thought, his cigarette loose on his lips. Soon, Turner would wake up and they’d be on their way back to the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth, and then…

And then what?

He blinked a few times and jostled his cigarette with his teeth, smoke escaping from the holes in his neck. They’d give Hancock and the Railroad the rundown of what happened with the Institute, about how they’d no longer (hopefully) pose a threat to Boston, and then?

Nick remembered what Turner had said about Paladin Riddik the previous night, how worked up she’d gotten at the very prospect of the Brotherhood continuing their onslaught against her. He wanted to tell her not to worry, but that would get them nowhere in the long run.

What may come will come, Nick knew, and they had no way of stopping the Brotherhood if they so decided to chase after some runaway. Turner made it sound like it was a far more personal affair than what she initially let on. This Elder Maxson character, for example. If he understood right, Maxson hadn’t killed her when he had the chance – the night Turner attempted to rescue the kidnapped Railroad agents.

Nick had only managed to hear snippets from her concerning the Elder in their walks to get the Eddie Winter tapes, but she hadn’t elaborated when Hancock was around. And Riddik showed they meant business when they stormed North End Church with only three other Knights at their side – and Turner had managed to kill one of them with just a meager pistol.

Perhaps they did have a chance with the Railroad now at their back. Desdemona could cry and whine all she wanted that Turner was the root cause of all the Railroad’s problems, but after what just happened? There was no way she could try to deny Turner a bit of help taking down a menace not just to her, but to the whole of the Commonwealth.

Nick took one last drag of his cigarette and threw it down into the sand, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he let the wind clear his thoughts. He hadn’t joked when he said he’d have to oil his joints soon. Already he could feel his knees wanting to creak when he flexed, the way his elbows felt stiff and tight. Soon, he’d be just as bad off as the Tin Man when Dorothy and the gang found him.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to ask Ellie to lend a hand in taking care of it, if Turner was willing. He knew she’d make fun of him the whole time, but Nick was already thinking of witty one-liners and comebacks should the need arise.

He chuckled quietly to himself. Turner and her Railroad friends would be in Diamond City for the foreseeable future. Sure, Hancock might be upset that she couldn’t hang around Goodneighbor, but there was always a way she could work something out with the Railroad.

Nick broke away from his reverie when the sun shone through the clouds for just a second, the light hitting his optics painfully. He glanced quickly across the sand dunes as he let his apertures adjust accordingly, his vision swamped white. When he managed to get his bearings back, he spied nothing but shells and upturned, rotted beach chairs.

Nothing looked to be out of the ordinary, and yet he couldn’t help but feel maybe he was  falling apart after all this time.

The sand shifted uncomfortably under his feet as he walked around the dunes that gathered near the grass line, his fingers petting the handle of the pipe pistol Preston had given him the night previous. It was nice to finally have something to arm himself with—pipe pistol or no, he was a crack shot when he needed to be.

Running a hand down his face, he let out a huff and looked out to the waves one last time before he turned back to the Castle. Deciding he would have plenty of time to pine over the scenery once he and Turner were on the move, Nick began his short trek across the grassy hills leading up to the Minutemen’s post. And in that time, he scoured the grass underfoot as he walked, counting seashells as he went.

\---

Turner replaced her things in her back and stepped out into the cold of the morning, her hands rubbing away at her arms to keep the semblance of warmth she left behind in her bed. Nick had to be somewhere nearby, she knew. He didn’t need to sleep, but she was grateful he’d stayed as long as he did as she tried to her best to doze off.

Even if he left the second she drifted, it was nice to know he was there until she… well, didn’t know any better. Could a robot get restless legs? Maybe his servos would lock up? The thought was somewhat amusing, nevertheless.

Turner laughed to herself as she opened the door to the washroom and retrieved her things. Nothing was quite so nice as putting on a freshly cleaned coat in the brisk morning, aside from staying in bed perhaps.

And even though the thick smell of sea salt and gunpowder lingered, she pulled the hood up and around her chin, bathing in the warmth and comfort it brought her.

Out into the courtyard she stepped, where she breathed deep until the air stung the inside of her chest, holding it for a few seconds before she released it in a large puff of moisture and heat.

“You’re not smoking now, are ya?” Nick joked, coming around the radio tower in the center of the yard.

The cold didn’t bother him, not like a human at least. He felt it, to be sure, but he was perfectly fine without his cherished coat. Uncomfortable and exposed, but fine—much unlike the ragamuffin in front of him.

“I don’t wanna smell like an ashtray. That’s your job.” Turner slapped at his arm, her short laugh coming out as several quick puffs.

“As long as I don’t have to tell Hancock you picked up the habit from me.” Nick looked back at Preston as the Minuteman crossed the dying grass, already on his fourth bout of morning rounds. “Told him we were headed out. You all set?” He threw his spent cigarette to the ground and smothered it underfoot. “No rush.”

“I’m ready, yeah.” Turner adjusted her bag strap and slapped at the familiar weight on her hip for emphasis. “Kinda nervous, but good.”

Following Turner toward the main gate, the synth raised an eyebrow at the comment (or what could be considered an eyebrow—it was more a texture on his plastic skin than anything). They stood, caught in the wind tunnel made by the old stone entryway of the Castle, as Nick came to an abrupt stop beside her.

“’Bout what?” he questioned. Seeing the way Turner’s hood slapped gently against the side of her face from the wind, he pulled it up onto her head. “Not havin’ second thoughts, are ya?”

It took her only a few seconds to realise what he was talking about—them.

“No, no, not that.” Out on the path that led down the beachside, her eyes followed the detritus that littered the sand-covered road, “Just nervous about everything, I guess. It’s hard to explain. It’s like being worried about everything and nothing all at the same time. You know what I mean?”

“Of course. You’ve been in the business as long as I have, it’s pretty much the only way _to_ feel.” Nodding in the direction of the path, they stepped out into the weak sunlight. “Worryin’s like payin’ a debt you don’t owe. That’s how I try to look at it.”

\---

The ruins of Boston were quiet in the early morning. Either the raiders of the Commonwealth hadn’t heard the duo traversing the broken streets of the destroyed city, or they were too high or hungover from the previous night to bother with them. Largely defenseless, Turner didn’t complain that she and Nick were left to their own devices. Though, she still tried her best to stay as quiet as possible.

An overturned car sat in the gutter, a pile of stained newspapers all around it. There had to be a story there, but Turner wasn’t quite in the mood to inspect it any further. Instead, she simply kicked some of the papers out of the way, sending them into the wind.

She rubbed the cold from her nose and watched a thin cloud escaped her lips in a huff. Soon, they would be back in the supposed safety of Diamond City, back with the Railroad, with the news of the Institute’s destruction. The Brotherhood would come next, she knew, and as much as she dreaded the idea Turner knew Riddik and Maxson had to be dealt with. And soon.

Maxson would give up the ghost eventually, but Paladin Riddik? No. They would travel to New Vegas and back if it meant getting their hands on her. Turner sighed and shook the bothersome thoughts away as best she could, telling herself she was okay for the time being.

Not much unlike Turner, Nick was just as eager to get home. Not so much back to the grind of detective work, but back on his home turf.

Adjusting the collar of his shirt, Nick ran his exposed hand over his uncovered head. Still unused to being without his signature hat and coat, he would be plenty glad to have them back.

The helped hide him, as much as it was, helped conceal the parts of him that were inarguably inhuman.

It was the small things.

\---

Taking the back roads of Boston proved fortuitous to Turner and Nick in the end. The trek had been slightly longer than either of them would have liked, but they continued as gunfire could be heard in the distance—out in the direction they’d initially been traveling. Turner watched a small flock of birds flee into the sky at the sounds that blasted in the distance, and she was glad they’d chosen their current path.

It was hard to doubt the synth detective knew the city better than Turner ever could. Sure, she’d done quite a bit of recon during her time in the Brotherhood and alongside the Railroad, but she shied away from most of the neighbourhood streets outside Diamond City. The green walls of the baseball stadium now, however, were a welcome sight as they came upon them.

Soon, they realised, their tiring, arduous, death-defying journey would be ending.

“Piper’s gonna want to talk to us once word gets out about the Institute.” Nick started, placing an arm across Turner’s shoulders, wary of the bruise still on her back.

“Piper?” she asked in return. The current or past events of Diamond City were still largely unknown to Turner. After a while, maybe she’d get the hang of it, but for now not so much.

“Oh, just you wait. Maybe if she gets to pestering you, she’ll leave the mayor alone for a while.” There was a beat of silence between them, a few more gun shots in the distance, an explosion, and then the sound of birds making a fuss.

“Are you gonna get straight back into detective work?” Turner asked after the noise died back down, “Or are you gonna hang out with the Railroad for a while?”

Down the slope of his nose, Nick stared at her, “Tryin’ to get rid of me so soon, huh? And here I thought we had somethin’ goin’.” By the look on Turner’s face, she could tell he was messing with her. “Might take a bit to make sure you and yours do alright. Can’t let Hancock have all the fun, can we?”

Turner scoffed from her nose and ran her hand along the painted brickwork of Diamond City’s walls. “He has enough fun by himself, believe me.”

An image of the ghoul mayor sprawled out on the floor of the Third Rail with a finished bottle of vodka nearby and several jet cannisters came to mind—not because Turner had to envision it, but because she’d seen it happen once or twice.

Her face fell. How was Hancock doing?  How well had he taken to her disappearing? _Again_. Nick wasn’t there to keep him level, surrounded by the Railroad, people he didn’t rightly know.

Facing him would be different than the last time she up and vanished, but the gut-wrenching weight was still there, like a stone sitting in the pit of her stomach. She would cope. He would make a face. It would turn out alright, she told herself. Didn’t help much, but the thought was there.

The sound of turrets filled the air the nearer to Diamond City Turner and Nick drew, the smell of fuel heavy on the wind that blew down the main thoroughfare. So close to home, so close and yet…

Turner ducked out from under Nick’s arm and ran ahead a bit to look around, confused at the sight before her. The turrets were unmanned, as were the guard stands along the ramshackle gates dotting the street. The statue garden leading into the city was devoid of life, the metal doors that led inside drawn halfway down, if only to let the light and breeze in.

“Somethin’ doesn’t smell right.” Nick pulled his pistol into the open and approached the gate. Meanwhile, Turner ducked onto her knees and glanced under the drawn gate, not surprised to find the lobby was empty as well. “See anything?”

“No one’s here. C’mon.” She crawled under the gate on her hands and knees, brushing off her britches when she made it inside. Nick followed her, his gun still drawn. He made sure, though, to finish pulling the gate down after them once they were both securely inside.

Across the way, the fence that led into the city proper was locked tight with a padlock and chain, the weight of the metal enough to make the gate sag onto the concrete beneath it. “Doesn’t look like they’re in a welcoming mood.” Nick’s fingers traced the padlock.

It was a combo lock, the keyhole destroyed with what he assumed was a screwdriver. There was no way he’d be able to work his magic on it, not without the code.

“You think they’re trying to keep people in or out?” Turner asked, standing on her tiptoes to peer over the slope that led into the ball field. “Hey!” she yelled in the hopes someone would hear her, “Anyone there?”

Nick stood nearly a foot taller than his small companion and could easily see into the main square. The only people he could see were City guards, and they obviously heard Turner yelling out to them. A few gathered at the bottom of the walkway and stared up at the locked fence, unable to see the two that stood behind it. Perhaps they thought it safer to remain where they were.

“Ain’t gonna work, kid. They’re not biting.” Nick pulled Turner off the gate and found himself searching for an alternate route. In the far corner of the room, the elevator sat, the terminal nearby still aglow. “This way.”

Something wasn’t right, that was for damn sure. The air was different, heavy even.

Something happened while they were gone.

The keyboard clacked loudly as Nick threw it down, his fingers tapping along the keys to get the machine running. At the same time, Turner made her way over to the elevator door. The pitiful thing looked to be on its last legs, the edge of the door dented and crimped in several spots as though something crushed it. She could easily see inside through the gap that was created by the listing door, the lights still on.

“System’s down. Damn it.” Nick hit the enter key futilely several more times before slapping the keyboard back up against the screen, only to turn and see that Turner stood next to an open elevator door.

“The door’s busted.” She stated, and pointed at the warped metal, “Looks like someone forced it open.” Her fingers slid on the heavy indents for emphasis, “Panel’s still lit up, though.”

Together, they headed inside and sent the car up, slowly but surely, to the second floor.

“You sure about this?” Turner asked when the lobby disappeared, replaced by the brick wall and wiring of the stadium itself. “We could check in with Bunker Hill. See if they know anything.”

The ding of the elevator chime broke them from their thoughts, and slowly the second-floor doorway opened. Before Turner had a chance to step out into the foyer, a blur raced in front of the door, a gleam of silver drawn at them.

Pistol drawn and aimed shakily, the mayor’s assistant bellowed at them, “Get out!”

Pushed into the back of the elevator, Turner pinning Nick behind her unwillingly, they watched as Geneva take a few uneven breaths before she realised who stood in front of her: Diamond City’s robotic detective and the one who signed off on Homeplate down in the field.

“V-Valentine? That you?” Geneva lowered her gun and pushed away from the elevator to allow the them to exit, “Did you pick a time to show up.”

As soon as Turner and Nick stood fully in the room, Geneva made quick work of locking the elevator in place with a few key strokes on the terminal in the wall. Why she’d left it unlocked in the first place was beyond them, but maybe she hadn’t known the door downstairs was out of commission.

Turner went about gazing around the office. The rugs laid on the floor were in disarray, stacks of files knocked over into incomprehensible piles across the floor, and a thin line of dried blood that led from the Mayor’s office out into the foyer sat stained into the floorboards.

“What happened?” both she and Nick asked almost simultaneously.

Geneva took a seat in her desk chair, the desk chair that no longer sat behind the actual desk, next to the wide-open window overlooking Diamond City. The ball field didn’t appear too far out of the ordinary other than the distinct lack of people around. Smoke still rose from the various stacks, the reactor that housed Takahashi’s noodle stand seemed stable, and the flag still flew proudly over the city itself.

A weary hand made it to Geneva’s forehead, shaking somewhat as she raised it, “These… men? I don’t know. They were big, in metal suits. One came into the office, and dragged McDonough down into the streets. I,” Turner stepped up to the window to follow the woman’s gaze, “I stayed here. They took him into the square, and another metal guy appeared, yelling something. I couldn’t hear them at the time, but the guards tell me they were looking for those Railroad people.”

Eyes wide, Turner’s head whipped to face Nick.

“They went toward Homeplate. I don’t know what happened after that, other than the mayor disappeared with them when they left.” A cigarette was drawn from Geneva’s shirt pocket, lit faster than what even Nick could manage, “We’ve got nothing. The city’s on lockdown. No one in or out. Also, we don’t cover damages done to property, so if they--”

“’Cept us.” Nick corrected, cutting her off before she could finish.

Turner didn’t wait to hear any more and made her way to the platform that jutted out over the field. The wood creaked in the dry air as she all but jumped onto the lift, Nick not far behind.

It had to be Paladin Riddik.

Right?

Any raider could scrounge together a semi-functional suit of power armour and attempt a coup on Diamond City. That wasn’t beyond belief. But to ask about the Railroad? That was the nail in the coffin. Not to mention there had been more than one tin can that came waltzing through the gates.

Without a word, Nick activated the lift to take them down. He hadn’t bothered to shut the gate behind them, knowing fully well Turner wouldn’t bother to use it when they made it to the bottom.

What if Riddik destroyed the Railroad’s new home, her family—her new one, anyway—what of Hancock? There was no chance Riddik in all their Brotherhood zealotry would let a ghoul “shuffler” walk out without a few new holes in their chest.

Turner gripped the railing tightly, her knuckles turned a ghostly white, her cheeks flushed to the point her freckles were almost invisible. She shook her head but couldn’t keep her gaze still.

She could tell Nick wanted to say something to help relieve the tension of the situation, but even he knew it wasn’t the right time. Fear felt like the most rational emotion.

Before the lift made it fully to the bottom, Turner leapt the last couple of feet, and ignored the pain in the balls of her feet as she ran. Nick wasn’t far behind, his longer legs letting him catch up easily.

A puddle splashed icy water against her legs, but it did nothing to deter her as the last few meters to Homeplate remained. Common sense left her for a moment as she thought the front door would be unlocked. When she pulled the latch and pushed, however, she was met with a great deal of resistance.

The door didn’t budge an inch, blocked by something heavy on the other side. Next, she rammed her shoulder into it, backing away with an obvious wince when the bruise on her back flared to life.

“You alright?” Nick checked, Turner’s face red with tears that threatened to fall.

Another route presented itself, and she stomped back up to the door. “Deacon?!” she shouted, banging a curled fist against the reinforced wood, her shoe next to strike it. “Hancock? You there?”

Turner was close to climbing her way onto the roof to reach the hatch up top when suddenly the sound of something being pushed against the rough floorboards could be heard from inside. Nick was sure to pull Turner away from the door before she launched herself at it—they didn’t know who might be the one to answer.

From the small sliver made by the open door, a black, reflective square peered out at the pair—a sunglass lens—and trained intently on the barrel of Nick’s gun.

“Squirt?” A familiar voice asked at the sight of Turner. One red eyebrow appeared from the top of the sunglasses before the person disappeared completely. More scraping could be heard just before the door was flung open, Deacon appearing no worse for wear.

A large dresser and a few cinderblocks sat behind him on the floor, and a small coffee table was pushed awkwardly under what remained of the stairs. There was another story Turner would have to worry about later.

Deacon dashed out and took Turner by the cheeks before she had a chance to say anything, pulling her up onto the toes of her sneakers. Perhaps everything was alright? Maybe Geneva had been mistaken? A band of raiders _could_ have gotten a suit or two of power armour and run amok in the city. It might have just been a coincidence.

But they’d been looking for the Railroad explicitly. That was the most troubling part of the predicament.

“Oh no!” Deacon exclaimed as he squeezed Turner’s face, her hands clutching at his wrists to no avail. “You’ve been replaced by the Institute! What am I gonna tell Dez?”

“Deacon, what happened?” Turner struggled to ask through misshapen lips, managing to pry Deacon away from her face.

Deacon stared the two of them down, Turner and Nick both in one piece. The Teleporter had been a success! Unless Turner really had been replaced… and Nick, too, and this was all some elaborate trap. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Come to think of it, the synth lacked his pungent “au de cigarette” he usually carried. Well, it was less noticeable, at the very least. Replaced by the smell of moth balls. That _was_ noticeable.

“Get inside, then we’ll talk. Serious business.” Deacon led Turner through the threshold into Homeplate, but stopped to face Nick before he could follow. “Bad news. Real bad.” He whispered and glanced over his shoulder at Turner’s back. “Like, Hancock bad.”

Nick understood perfectly, and yet understood nothing at the same time. As much as the Railroad had become his business over the past few weeks, he couldn’t help but feel he was invading their space somewhat. He wasn’t looking forward to what Deacon had to say.

Following on their heels, Nick shut the door behind him and helped Deacon replace the bookshelf in front of it. For extra safety, the latter made sure to throw a rather flimsy bolt into place on the edge of the door frame.

Already, Turner was sniffing about, her footfalls heard walking around the breezeway. Nick swept away the dust that fell atop his head, realizing the stairs to the second floor were in shambles, the second-floor landing a mess of mangled boards.

She searched for the familiar scarlet frock of her ghoul friend, for the worn-out tricorn that didn’t quite fit. Even the fetid smell of jet would have tipped her off, but there was nothing. Surely, Hancock would have heard her calling at the door.

Deacon adjusted his sunglasses and waved for Turner and Nick to follow before she had a chance to ask where Hancock and the others were. Homeplate looked mostly abandoned when they’d entered, and Nick knew the others had to be down in the newly added basement. It was only a matter of time before someone came poking their head up to inspect the noise.

Down the wide hall they walked, toward the back of the Railroad’s new safehouse, into what was now a workshop. Pushed into the corner by no less than three or four agents and hung up on a ramshackle rig, a familiar suit of Brotherhood power armour stood.

Turner came to a dead stop, her legs frozen in place when she noticed the red roman numerals on its cuirass. “IX” stood out boldly on the worn metal, the helmet damaged with what looked to be a blast from a shotgun.

One of Paladin Riddik’s Knights.

“Yeah, about that. Lemme explain.” Deacon swallowed hard, and became quite shy. “You see, what happened—”

“Where’s Hancock?” Turner asked gravely as she knew fully well Deacon was now hiding something from her. Her eyes bored into him, the heat of her gaze so intense he took a step to the side to avoid bursting into flame.

He puffed his cheeks out and swung his gaze at Nick for guidance, but the synth stared him down nearly as hard as Turner. Together, they made the Railroad’s best liar feel infinitesimally small.

There was no way to avoid it, so without any more hesitation, Deacon blurted all he could at once, “The Brotherhood came in looking for you, took Hancock, the Mayor, and got one of their friends killed, then skedaddled as fast as they could, oh, and don’t worry, we didn’t leave him in the suit.” He pointed at the power armour and took his eyes off the small agent for but a second.

Looking back, Turner was already a foot away from him. “Did they have a Brotherhood flag under their pauldron? A hammer?”

Deacon craned his head back and nodded, not at all enjoying the way Turner was now standing in his space. When he did it, it was different. Playful. With the way she was acting now, he hardly found her clenching hands amusing.

A crooked, forced smile found its way to his face.

“Deacon!” Turner burst, Nick there to pull her back within a second of grabbing Deacon’s shirt collar.

“Yes! They didn’t take anyone else besides Hancock and McDonough. We were all hidden down below. Hancock said he wanted to stay topside to make sure they wouldn’t find us.” Deacon’s mouth fell open and shut like a fish struggling to breathe. “He was alive when they took him.”

“It’s a trap.” Nick stated the obvious as he held Turner’s shaking shoulders. He peered over the top of her head and stared the other agent down hard. “They’re using him as bait.”

“I know,” Turner confirmed, “and it’s gonna work.”

“Kid.” Nick tried as he gently spun Turner around to face him. “You can’t go after the whole of the Brotherhood. You should know that better than anyone.”

Her eyes searched his face.

And the mask she’d been wearing crumbled into nothing.

Without warning, Turner’s face contorted and her eyes screwed shut, her face buried into Nick’s chest. Aside from her muffled, deep breaths, he could feel the front of his shirt growing wet.

“I can’t let Riddik kill him. Not like Metro.” Turner shook her head, her fingers knotted into thin shirt fabric. “They won’t let him go even if I surrender. There’s no way they’ll let a ghoul live.”

When Nick glanced back up he noticed Deacon’s disappearance. He could easily hear, though, the whispered chatter emanating from the basement hatch. He glared over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed on the small group that collected at the trap door to watch the scene unfold.

With a load snap, the door popped back into the floor, leaving them alone.

Turner pulled her face away from Nick’s chest and wiped at her burning cheeks with her coat sleeve, talking between deep breaths. “I can’t let Riddik get away with it. They have to be dealt with—Maxson, too.”

Nick placed a cold, metal hand against her cheek, and she leant into it, the chill welcome against her hot face. “How? That’s an army, sweetheart.”

Pulling herself away, Turner made her way over to Nine’s power armour, “It’s not just about me anymore. Even if Riddik hadn’t been after me, Maxson would still try to destroy the Railroad. Something has to be done.” Silent tears still streamed down her face despite her attempts to stop them. “Something has to be done. _Now_.”

From behind the corner, Deacon waved a hand, tapping it against the warped metal of the wall before exposing his head. “Idea?” He questioned, almost too quietly.

He stepped out into the open when both Turner and Nick stared at him, neither of them convinced. “You got onto the Prydwen before, right? Used a suit?” Patting the suit of Nine’s armour, he pulled Turner forward by the sleeve—wiping his hand off when he realized it was wet. “You wanna stop this? Save the Railroad? Get your ghoul-friend back?”

Turner nodded through the headache that formed in her temples.

“Tinker Tom and I have been planning something.” Deacon gave pause, his lips pulled into a thin line.

“You don’t know how to fly a vertibird, do you?”

\---

 Down below Homeplate, Turner and Nick explained what happened in the Institute, how Turner didn’t betray the location of the Railroad (despite the stern looks Desdemona gave her), how a synth named Ersatz led them into the belly of the beast and set up the destruction of one of the Commonwealth’s greatest enemies. How they escaped, sans the other synth, and ended up at the Minutemen’s base on the coast.

Nick was finally in the comfort of his beloved coat and hat, the collar pulled high around his ears and the brim tipped low over his eyes. The familiar weight was welcome on his shoulders, torn seams, patches, and all.

Turner, on the other hand, was still as anxious as she had been when they entered the city, if not more so.

The Railroad couldn’t move on the Brotherhood immediately, but like Deacon told them: he and Tinker Tom were in the midst of a plan to stop them, to put an end to Paladin Riddik, and hopefully get Goodneighbor’s mayor back in his rightful place. Oh, and save the Railroad. That, too.

If anyone knew the inner workings of the Brotherhood of Steel, it would be Turner. Nine’s power armour would be used to secret her onto a vertibird seated on a nearby police station, just across the water. Whomever tried to stand in their way would be taken out—a hazard she knew was inevitable, despite that they may be people she knew once upon a time.

From there, they would make a move on the airport to the south and board the Prydwen directly, while Tom and the others provided fire support. Once on board, Turner and a small group would infiltrate the Prydwen, face Riddik and Maxson, and bring everything to a head.

When Turner asked just how Deacon planned to take on dozens of heavily armed knights, paladins, and possibly scribes, he simply stated: Fat Man. Several of them.

She didn’t want to question how they managed to get ahold of one of the most destructive weapons in the wasteland, but she didn’t try to put it past Deacon. He knew people, despite how well he hid himself, and whether he got the Fat Man launchers by legitimate means or not didn’t matter much anymore.

The plan felt… doable? Turner was still unsure. She knew the Pyrdwen well enough, but the Brotherhood would hear them coming from miles off. Unless they stayed as incognito as possible on their approach to the docked dirigible. If they could make it on board without anyone the wiser, at least until it was too late, the better. Then they could launch an assault from the air with the mounted minigun and Fat Mans. They could destroy what vertibirds the Brotherhood chapter had left at their disposal at the airport before they even had a chance to get off the ground.

Guilt and anxiety still racked her—they couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t be a repeat of Metro, that Riddik wouldn’t just wait to kill Hancock until she arrived—but it wasn’t just about him anymore. It was for the good of the Railroad and the Commonwealth that they succeed.

Even if worse came to worse, the Railroad would bring the next biggest threat to Boston to an end.

Turner felt a pang of sadness at the thought of destroying what used to be her home, her family, before Maxson returned the Brotherhood to its original goals. The family that cared for the whole of the people was gone, Lyon’s Brotherhood smothered when Maxson rose up and assimilated the Outcasts back into their order.

Sure, there were some, such as herself, that didn’t wholeheartedly support the Elder in everything he did, in all his ideals, but still followed him hundreds of miles to the North, to Boston. They had every chance to leave, just as Turner had, whether he wronged them or not.

Telling herself that made some of the guilt fade, though not much.

Turner grew up alongside Maxon. There had to be some way to talk him down, to get him to pull the reins on Riddik (there was no way the Paladin was following protocol or orders at that point). She knew, however, that it was a losing battle.

Maxson would fight her now more than ever. She’d shamed him, slapped him without ever touching his face. Not only could Turner count a ghoul amongst those she loved, but now another synth. Another slap. And maybe a punch for good measure.

She was determined to finish this.

\---

Tomorrow. They would begin their trek to the police station to the North across the water. Nine’s power armour was ready and waiting for Turner in Homeplate, pulled from its corner to be played with by Tom and a few others. She didn’t bother to ask what they’d done with the Knight’s body. It didn’t matter much at that point.

Homeplate was alive with energy, anxious buzzing with plans that were to go down the next day, plans that would change the scope of the Railroad and Commonwealth for some time. Talks went long into the evening, and near about 11PM the noise began to die down. The excitement of taking down the Brotherhood, however, did not.

Turner found the noise stifling, wanted to get away from it all. From the sounds, from Deacon and his constant pokes and prods, from Desdemona and her aggressive questions and looks, from anything and everything.

In the chilly night air, she stepped, filling her lungs until they were near to bursting. For a few, long seconds, she held it in, then released it in a puff of condensation. It was a pseudo relief, really. Only temporary. An empty Nuka Cola box next to a workbench became her seat as she collected herself, and she fell onto it more than sat.

 _She was tired_.

Mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.

Desperately, she wanted to sleep, but she knew fully well the hubbub in Homeplate would continue long into the night. She wanted to sleep to keep her mind off the coming morning, when she would once again don the armour of a dead Knight (though she wasn’t the one to kill them this time), just like she’d done not long ago.

To her left, the door to Homeplate opened, and out stepped Nick. He was outlined by the fairy lights from inside the home for only a second before he shut the door behind him, his face illuminated by the end of a freshly lit cigarette.

He was back to his old self, with a few new tears and holes here and there.

“You can stay at the agency tonight, if you want.” He offered, knowing why Turner chose the spot outside. The sounds the Railroad within could still be heard through the walls, through the cracks in the metal and makeshift insulation. There was no way she was going to get any sleep back in there.

“I was kinda hoping you’d say that.” Almost planned out, she patted the bag at her side—liked she’d known Nick would ask.

Laughing, he walked up to her and extended his exposed hand, helping her up from her spot at the workbench. “Ellie might chew me out for not checkin’ in earlier, but she’ll simmer down eventually. Not the first time I’ve gone and vanished.”

\---

The office of the Valentine Detective Agency was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner farthest away from the door. Ellie was asleep upstairs, Nick assumed, or over at Bobrov’s place for a drink given the time of night. He was quiet as he spoke, “You can use my bed in the back. Don’t have much of a use for it.”

“No sleep for the old man, then? Can’t turn anything off for a bit?” Turner asked as they crept down the hall together.

“If you’re gonna be like that, you can sleep up on the roof again.” He played coy. Just to spiteful at his sarcasm, she would take him up on that offer. And then shiver the rest of the night. “Might do a few tests I missed last night. Make sure the ol’ ticker’s workin’ right.”

Turner rounded the corner and spotted what she assumed to be Nick’s bed. She assumed it was his only because last time she had been in the agency, the Railroad members hadn’t touched it, and even then, it was still made. Almost mechanically so.

It was covered in a thin layer of dust from the stairs, and was now home to several short stacks of books and a file or two. She didn’t miss a rather thick folder hurriedly stuffed under the pillow labeled “Mysterious Stranger”, and grinned a bit.

Everyone had a hobby. Hancock’s was chems and Nick’s just so happened to be an old Wives’ Tale that traveled all the way to Shady Sands.

Nick rubbed at the back of his head, pushing up his hat a bit, “Forgot it was like that. Don’t come back here too much. And you’ve been distracting me from comin’ home.”

After removing the books and files, Turner making sure to waggle the “Mysterious Stranger” folder temptingly for emphasis—the synth snatching it up quickly—she shook the sheet. Dust wafted into her face and brought about a violent sneeze. “Thanks.” She coughed, and waved her hand in front of her face to disperse the dust that lingered.

Plopping her bag down next to the bed, she dug out her teddy and threw it gently onto the pillow, taking off her coat and shoes before she spun and sat down. Turner drew her feet up under her as Nick sat down next, adjusting his slacks in the process.

He noted the dark circles under her eyes and the almost invisible tear streaks that stained her cheeks several hours earlier. The day had been hard on everyone to be sure, but Turner was certain Riddik destroyed the Railroad when they’d first entered Diamond City, that Hancock had been dragged away or killed, and that the murderous Paladin was now lying in wait for her.

That would take a toll on anyone. After everything was said and done, they needed a vacation. Somewhere away from all the tomfoolery the Commonwealth offered. If one dared to call it that.

Turner fell to her side and let her head land on the teddy bear with a thump, the pillow and stuffed animal cushioning her. “Sure you don’t wanna try and sleep?”

“You tried the same thing last night, kid. Now get under the damn covers.”

“So, the dust bunnies are gonna keep me company, then?” Turner made a “pssh” sound with her lips before turning her face into her pillow.

“That’s right. The radioactive, mutated dust bunnies that eat smart-asses for dinner.” Nick yanked the covers out from under her as Turner shimmied along as purposefully slow as she could. In turn, she blew a raspberry at the synth when at last he threw the sheet over her.

He straightened his coat as he stood, tightening the belt at his waist that didn’t quite make it through all the loops—all the loops that were left, at least.

Turner gave him an unreadable look as he stared her down, “I’m gonna check upstairs for Ellie. If she’s not there, I’ll be gone for a bit. Be back soon, alright?” His hand tangled in her mess of hair, earning him a groan, “You’ve got the bunnies for company, remember?”

She listened as he traveled upstairs, only to find the quaint bedroom Ellie made for herself empty. She was out in the city somewhere, most likely in the bar just down the street. Passing Turner on his way out, he gave her a wink and a peck on the forehead as she did her best to hide under the thin sheet that covered her, her narrowed eyes following him around the corner.

Alone, she listened as the front door shut and locked.

Turner was a big girl. She’d slept plenty of times on nothing more than a flattened cardboard box, her blanket a suit of power armour, her pillow an automatic weapon. So why did Nick’s bed feel so uncomfortable. It might have been from the books now missing, or maybe the extra bit of comfort the large cryptid folder under the pillow brought. Regardless, the agency felt so… empty.

Despite knowing he’d be back soon, Turner was left alone with her thoughts, unable to get her mind off the day to come, of what events might transpire. Of who might die. Maybe if Nick hadn’t given her the small kiss on the forehead a moment before, she wouldn’t have thought about it too hard.

Hancock was in danger, but had it truly been because of her? He was selfless, always sure to protect the innocent and those unable to take care of dangers themselves. He’d seen firsthand what Paladin Riddik did to North End Church, how they hunted after her ever since she’d left Goodneighbor and the ghoul behind.

Even as friends, Hancock wouldn’t allow something like that to stand.

As on-and-off… she didn’t know what to call the two of them. Lovers? No, that didn’t sound right, didn’t feel right in her chest. Really close friends that were occasionally intimate, but not in the way that he overstepped her comforts? Maybe. As “whatever they were”, Hancock wouldn’t allow Riddik to hurt someone he cared about—friend, lover, or whatever.

And Turner felt terrible he’d been caught in the crossfire.

Her teddy was pulled in close, her face buried into its back.

And now there was Nick. She really knew how to choose ‘em.

Covering her ears from the chill, Turner forced herself to try and sleep. Her mind was tired and her limbs felt heavy, and she willed herself to stop thinking, to steady her breaths so could at least relax.

And that was the hardest part.

\---

As he expected, Nick found Ellie at the Dugout Inn. The girl was ecstatic when he walked through the door, that he was safe and sound, back home again. Back to cases and detective work, back to the agency where he’d hopefully stay for a while. The cases were beginning to back up.

Nick warned her of their guest, who was hopefully asleep, as a warning to be quiet when she returned to the agency. If she came back, that is—Ellie was flirting with someone when Nick walked into the bar, and he didn’t need a few red blood cells to see what was going on there.

With a sly wink, he left her in peace and made his way back to the agency, sure to open the squeaky front door as inhumanly quiet as possible. He hadn’t noticed how much noise it made when they’d come in earlier. Perhaps, he just hadn’t thought about it. But now?

The floorboards in the office? Loud.

The floor in the hall? Obscenely noisy.

His bedroom? Not really.

Nick found Turner asleep, thankfully, buried under the sheet, nearly hidden from sight.

“Must be gettin’ cold.” He figured aloud in a whisper, and removed his coat. He placed it overtop her, hoping it would help warm her up. Her coat was too thick to be wearing to sleep, but if she shivered any more, he would throw that atop her, too.

Finding a spot on the books they’d placed at the head of the bed, he sat down and hung his hat on one of the bed knobs. He leant back against the wall and shut his optics, letting his processor go to work through some tests he needed to catch up on.

It was the closest to sleep he was going to get.

\---

Up next!

\---

The Railroad takes the battle to the Brotherhood, and Turner stands at the forefront! When the group reaches the police station, they find a Paladin standing in the way of their plans. But it’s not who Turner expects!

Tune in for Turncoat Chapter 24: Danse With Me!

\---

**Fanart!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by (Clockwise starting at top-left): 
> 
> Qsy-Draws-A-Lot  
> Pirpintine  
> Laurenallyse  
> Katelyn Harper 
> 
> Comments really help me, and I love to hear what you guys have to say! QwQ Thank you again for all your love and support, and for making Turncoat as popular as it is!


	24. Danse with Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank your for all your kudos and comments! I really love hearing back from you guys! 
> 
> Don't be afraid to comment or message me--it really does help!

\---

The morning came far too quickly, and when Turner awoke she felt as though she hadn’t slept a wink. The bed hadn’t been terribly uncomfortable or cold when she realized Nick’s coat had been draped over her, and she hadn’t moved much during the night. But she hadn’t dreamt, and her limbs felt heavy as she pulled herself from bed and prepared for the day to come.

She felt sluggish, a dull thrum in her temples that signified anxiety and stress, as if she wasn’t aware of it already.

Looking herself over in a small mirror situated beside the staircase, Turner could tell she was off-putting, her hair a mess and her eyes riddled with burst blood vessels. Try as she might, her hair stuck out in odd directions, much like it always did, and she decided that if someone in the Brotherhood was going to comment on her hair as she came charging in with a suit of armour, then they certainly didn’t have their priorities straight.

Nick stood waiting outside the agency when she exited, leant against the wall of the building across the alley. How long he’d been out there, she couldn’t have known, as when she awoke he was still gone—if he’d returned at all the night before. “Mornin’. Any longer, kid, and I woulda fetched you.” He pushed himself away from the wall and threw his spent cigarette to the moist dirt, “You ready?”

Turner pulled a gulp of air into her chest and held it, “As ready as I’m gonna be.” She exhaled through her teeth, “It’s gonna feel weird putting the armour on again.”

Together, they walked into the morning light, the veil of fog sitting snugly over the city, colouring it a relaxing orange-yellow. No one else was about that time of morning save Takahashi, the robot ready at his noodle stand for the morning round of customers.

“I can imagine. Haven’t worn one personally, but I hear they’re all the rage in xenophobic circles.” The comment made Turner chortle shortly. She couldn’t deny the prod at the Brotherhood’s notorious introversion, for lack of a better word.

“Sure you don’t wanna try one on for size?” Turner joked as they stopped in front of the door that led into Homeplate, her hand on the doorknob.

“I’ve been called Tin Man enough times already. I’d say that quota’s been met.”

\---

The underbelly of Homeplate was abuzz with movement, small caches of guns being hoisted onto the main floor by a line of Railroad agents. Turner, Nick, Deacon, and Tom stood at the far end of the shack, the back of Nine’s power armour opened and ready as the rest of the world went on without them.  

Turner stood with her arms crossed over her chest and inspected the adjustments Tinker Tom made to the armour itself.

She was small—that much was certain, and just about everyone made a joke about it at one point or another. Power armour, much unlike her, were pre-war military suits built for warfare, and obviously designed for someone who stood roughly six feet or so.

Turner, much to her un-luck, stopped growing at age twelve, shooting to an astonishing height of barely five feet tall. Suffice to say, she’d earned her fair share of name calling and slaps back in the Brotherhood. If they had it their way, she would have ended up as a scribe in the basement of the Citadel, never to see the light of day.

But Tom had done well. In the bottoms of the suit’s metal platforms were risers welded into the frame to help her keep her balance. It was a simple change, and yet it would aid her in more ways than any of them could imagine.

Months ago, when she’d boarded the Prydwen initially under the guise of a knight, she hadn’t worn the suit well—an obvious giveaway to Maxson.

This time, however, she would be able to walk like a normal human. Or at least as normal as one could walk in a colossal suit of mechanized armour: awkward and heavy. But expectedly awkward and heavy. It didn’t matter much if she didn’t have a helmet to match—the Brotherhood would know she was coming. _Riddik would know she was coming._

“Good work, Tom.” Turner nodded her head at the Railroad’s premiere inventor, “The fusion core good?”

Tinker Tom stepped up and patted one of the suit’s pauldrons with a gloved hand, “It already had a pretty decent cell in it when… well, when the previous inhabitant was still kicking. Not a full charge, but enough to get us by on such short notice.” He pulled the back of the armour down from its upright position and inspected the core. “Just don’t go jumpin’ off any buildings, okay?” He threw open the back of the armour again and enthusiastically invited her forward. “C’mon, I wanna see this baby in action!”

Turner placed a single foot in the armour, her hands and arms sliding into place. She pulled the hand controls as far as they would extend from the arm units and gave the fingers of each a few waggles, just to make sure they responded correctly.

Behind her, Tom sealed the suit shut and took a step back to allow Turner some room to stomp around to face them.

The hood of her coat pushed against her back, but it helped keep her firmly in place as she adjusted to Nine’s armour. Now standing nearly a foot taller than Nick, Turner made a show of it by approaching the synth and placing her mechanical hands on her hips.

She grinned from overtop her cuirass, her tongue poking out from between her lips at the coy detective.

Nick couldn’t help but chuckle, and bowed his head sheepishly, suddenly small. It wasn’t often he found himself having to look up at someone, much less a ragamuffin who on a good day only made it up to his chin. “Don’t let the horsepower go to your head, kid.” He warned with a grin on his cheeks.

“Nah, her?” Deacon joked and attempted to push Turner off-balance, “Baby’s first power armour only goes about five miles an hour. Like, tops.” He slapped at her plated arm with the back of his hand and made a face when he realized what he’d done.

Deacon shook away the ache in his hand as Turner pushed him gently. He caught himself a few feet away and stuffed his hand into his pocket where he would whine about it later.

“Nice fit. Rides up a bit, but it’s always done that.” Turner affirmed her problem and shuffled her feet as though her clothes pinched her in some rather uncomfortable spots. She gave up when nothing felt any different for all her shifting, and watched as Nick padded up to close the distance between them.

His metal digits curled around one of the handles on the chest of her armour and pulled her down to look him in the eye. “You sure about this?” he asked, hyper-aware of what events were about to befall them when they stepped out the door.

“A hundred percent.” Was Turner’s reply, and her hand came up to rest on his arm. “Don’t really know how everything’s gonna turn out, but we’ve gotta try.” She sighed and let her gaze fall to the floor, “You sure you want to come along?”

“Never been more sure, sweetheart.” Nick grabbed the other handle of her chest plate and pulled her in close. He kissed her gently, simply, knowing fully well Deacon and Tinker Tom were now watching them intently.

Turner’s cheeks turned a deep scarlet, her freckles blurred into the red that spread across her face, and looked away. It was still an awkward thing for them, an affection that wouldn’t be looked on kindly by many people in the wasteland.

But with that in mind, she tried to hide a small smile and pulled herself back up to full height. People could think whatever they wanted. None of it had mattered with Metro. It hadn’t, and didn’t matter with Hancock. And it certainly wasn’t going to matter with Nick.

If synths could blush, she was sure the detective in front of her would have appeared more sheepish than she—his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, and everything save a grin was hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

An exaggerated kissing sound came from next to them, Deacon standing with his lips puckered and his hands rubbing at his shoulders. “When did you two become lovebirds, huh? I thought we promised no secrets?” he whined.

“This coming from the King of Lies?” Turner retorted, her chin held high.

“I’m the only one allowed to have them. Isn’t fair the other way.”

She rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long day.

\---

The Commonwealth was gentle with them as their group traveled north, the other half of the Railroad headed south toward the Brotherhood airport base. The southern group would wait for Turner and her team to arrive via vertibird, flares to be their signal to begin an assault. In the meantime, they would wait and watch, observing the base for anything advantageous to them.

Turner walked in the middle of their small party that consisted of herself, Nick, Tinker Tom, Deacon, and a few others. Just enough to secure the police station and make sure the vertibird could be operated properly. P.A.M., Desdemona, as well as their resident doctor, went with the south-bound group.

Tom and Deacon were pouring over a worn-out vertibird manual ahead of the group, bunched next to one another as they conversed loudly. Where they managed to find a book, much less one in decent condition, was beyond Turner. Even in the Brotherhood, one usually learnt to fly a VTOL simply by listening to another pilot complain about it.

Turner didn’t put anything past Deacon when it came right down to it.

Nick walked at her side quietly. She wasn’t completely oblivious to how he would spend minutes at a time just watching her. Her steps were wide, heavy, and measured, and with each lurch forward the suit compensated with full arm swings, her shoulders swaying to and fro.

A rifle sat belted across her chest and dangled at her side, the barrel pointed down to the ground facing away from her. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have a need to use it when they arrived at Cambridge Police Station.

Knowing the Brotherhood, things could go one way or another. Either the soldiers stationed there knew better and fled, or they would stand their ground and leave Turner and her group no choice.

“Thinking of getting one yourself now?” Turner laughed when she caught Nick staring again, catching him in the act.

His head snapped up to glance at her, his eyes closed in a light smile, “Don’t tempt me. I might be due for an upgrade soon.” Nick’s face became grave and he pulled himself closer to Turner’s side, “Kid, if we make it onto the Brotherhood’s ship, and Hancock is,” he paused and let the words float into the air.

Turner knew what he meant: if Hancock was dead. Her eyes dotted across the sloping landscape, from one dead tree to another. A small gathering of birds off in the distance caught her attention, and they flew off at the approaching noise of Deacon and Tom at the front of their band.

“Then we’ll take care of the Brotherhood regardless. With the Institute gone, maybe Maxson will listen to reason and just leave the Commonwealth.”

The synth gave her a strange look, “What makes you think he’ll just walk away?”

“Because he’s not like the other elders from the west. He learnt most about the Brotherhood through Elder Lyons and Sarah down in D.C...” Turner stared down at him over the slope of her shoulder armour, “The Brotherhood out here still wants the tech, but they won’t kill innocents or people who don’t pose a threat to them. Didn’t stop some of the knights from instigating things, but we—they made it happen.”

“Then came your friend, Riddik.” Nick added darkly.

“If it’s the Railroad, synths, ghouls, or mutants, the Brotherhood doesn’t really count them. Ghouls, at least in D.C., got left alone for the most part if they weren’t feral. But here?” Turner thought of Hancock and shook her head to get back on track. “If we can, I want to convince Maxson to leave. It won’t be easy, and I doubt he’ll bite, but I have to try.”

And she didn’t want to kill the boy she’d grown up alongside. Sure, Arthur Maxson had done her wrong in a number of ways: he’d Metro killed when he found out about their trysts, ordered Riddik to find her, charged her with treason when she left. But he tried to compromise with her last time she was on the Prydwen.

He had sympathy in his eyes. Or was it possessiveness?

Turner doubted he would extend the offer twice. And Riddik would never allow it to happen even if he tried.

“What do you think will happen when we get to Cambridge? How many folks do you think’ll be there?” Nick continued as Turner crushed a thick branch underfoot, a large splinter of wood shooting out and hitting Deacon squarely on the seat of his pants.

Deacon yelled at the sudden spank and sprinted ahead a few feet, his hand on his bottom. “You promised not to do that in public!” he whined, trying to gauge Turner’s reaction.

She simply shook her head and kicked though the dirt on the path. “Not sure. Most groups sent out on recon are usually only four or so. Maybe a knight and a few scribes. If they give up, good. If not—” she stared down at her rifle for a split second and took on a somber look, “We won’t know until we get there.” Turner placed a heavy hand on Nick’s shoulder, pushing him down a few inches accidentally. “Besides, maybe we can get around them and steal the vertibird.”

“And alert the Brotherhood ahead of time of our arrival.” Nick added, having to compensate for the added weight on one side.

“Never said I was a tactician.”

\---

The outskirts of Boston smelt clean, the air light and cold, the dotting of buildings leading through the decimated streets of Cambridge the only indication they were close to their target. That, and the obvious vertibird situated on top of the police station glistening in the sun.

The group stood hidden behind the husk of a destroyed house, the wood rotten and splintered, the brickwork a mess of rubble at their feet.

Turner spied around the corner to the fortified steel barriers bearing the winged insignia of the Brotherhood of Steel, dotted with bullet holes and claw marks alike. The air was eerily silent around the station, the turrets positioned outside still and inactive.

“Something’s amiss, methinks.” Deacon began and pushed his sunglasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “Gimme a sec.” He trotted across the street and scouted the exterior of the Cambridge Police Station, signaling to the rest of them a moment later to file in behind him.

Turner ran forward less than daintily and inspected the area. There had been a firefight at some point, of that much she was certain.

The unit stationed there would have suffered casualties to some degree, if their team had been large enough to fight back in the first place. The Brotherhood’s numbers in the Commonwealth were sparse, to say the least. They made the impression, even when Turner was amongst them, that their group was far larger than they let on.

But it was hardly the truth.

The Brotherhood’s numbers had always struggled for their alienation of outside groups, and it was destroying them.

“Think we can scale the building? Steal the bird out from under their noses?” Tom asked.

Turner pondered it for a second, knowing she was far too heavy at the moment to do any amount of climbing. She was good at falling and running around clumsily, but climbing? Out of the question.

“Not sure. We could always be polite and knock.” Nick strode up to the double doors that led into the station and positioned his ear, or audio receptor, as close as could to the door. “Not much goin’ on inside from what I can tell. Maybe they turned tail?”

“They would’ve taken the vertibird.” Turner corrected, “There’s no way they’d leave the tech behind, even if they were outnumbered.” As quietly as she could, she tiptoed up to the door alongside Nick and tried to peer through the dirty windows at the top of the door.

It was useless, however, as the grime and funk of two-hundred years had claimed the space rather impolitely.

“Deacon, Tom, the rest of you guys, stay out here until I call the all-clear.” She ordered, still unsure of what they were about to do, “I want to avoid getting anyone hurt. If something happens, I’ll funnel them through the front.”

Turner peered down at Nick, but before she could tell him to stay put he beat her to it, “Don’t say it, kid. You ain’t goin’ in alone.”

The door into the station squeaked loudly as it swung open, one of the topmost hinges coming undone not shortly after. Turner took a step back at the sudden noise, afraid they’d given away their position, and waited for any other sound to echo from inside.

When no one appeared, Turner and Nick continued forward.

In a suit of power armour, one could hardly be considered stealthy, and yet Turner tried her best to sneak forward through the lobby of the station.

Nick was ready at her side, pistol drawn and aimed ahead of him, Deacon and the others remaining at the doorway as instructed just in case a fight ensued.

The room to the right of lobby was largely barricaded behind a makeshift barrier, a metal gate pulled from outside propped against the mess of brick, tables, and miscellaneous furniture. Turner took a quick peek at Nick and continued forward up to the gate, one hand on her rifle at her hip.

She wouldn’t be able to quick draw the weapon in that position should the need arise, but her power armour would provide a few precious moments of protection if something decided to get the jump on them.

Through the gate, Turner gazed into the room, noticing two figures in the far corner: one obviously a field operative by their clothes, and the other fitted in customized, red-decaled power armour.

The sound of Turner’s heavy footfalls finally alerted the soldiers to their presence, or at least the one who was conscious. Quickly, the man in power armour stood and spun to face them, moving like a flash.

The man’s face was familiar as he stared them down from behind the gate.

“Danse?” Turner questioned, and pushed Nick out of the way without warning as the Paladin stormed through the barrier.

Danse rammed into Turner’s power armour like a freight train, pushing her back with ease to the other side of the lobby. The rest of the team outside watched as the two armoured behemoths struggled against one another, Danse winning out.

Turner tried as she might to regain her footing as the Paladin charged with his shoulder and pushed her through the crumbling wall of the next room, the weight of the two of them shattering a table as she tumbled back. Her head snapped against the floor as she fell onto her back, Danse seated on top of her.

“How dare you wear that armour!” Danse yelled, his metal fist coming down against the flooring as Turner barely moved her head in time. “You’re a disgrace to the Brotherhood. Maxson should have—”

Turner grabbed his fist as he attempted to strike her, and screwed his arm around, the mechanisms in his suit squealing in protest as he tried to wrench back. “Give me a second, Danse!” she shouted, and managed to throw him off to the side through several chairs.

Danse rolled and regained his footing with ease as Turner stumbled to her feet. He was more practiced than she when it came to wearing the large, mechanized suit, and it was painfully obvious as he ran toward her again.

\---

Nick watched from the next room, unable to interrupt for fear his bullet might ricochet and hit Turner. He pressed himself back toward the room Danse burst from, and spied the woman leant against the wall. Despite the clambering from the room Turner was in, he headed toward the woman, his gun still ready.

\---

Meanwhile, Turner swung at Danse with an unpractised arc and dented the crest of his chest plate, sending him reeling. When he stumbled for a second, Turner spun her rifle around and brought the butt of the gun up. It made contact with the top of Danse’s head, and he let out a pained groan as he teetered down onto one knee.

He moved forward and tried to grab her, but missed as she darted back, falling onto his forearm with a fog swarming his eyes.

Turner took a chance as the Paladin was dazed to race around to his back and grab at the fusion core seated in his armour. With a twist and a tug, she ripped the core free, immobilizing Danse where he kneeled.

And though he was brought to a standstill, a smear of thick blood now running down his forehead and nose, Danse wriggled and turned in his suit in an attempt to get moving, to get back into the fight, but to no avail.

He was stuck.

Nearly powerless and bowed before the Brotherhood’s biggest traitor, he glared at Turner from under a furrowed, vicious brow. His nostrils flared, and he breathed heavy given his situation, “What are you doing here?” he growled. His eyes darted from her through the wreckage of the wall to the other side of the station where Nick had been. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble? And now you bring the Railroad, thinking you’ll best—”

Turner rolled her eyes and let him continue his rant as she repositioned her rifle back into place at her side. Her ears rung with adrenaline and fear while she came down from the fight, the Paladin’s voice a dull murmur in the background.

She swore there were chunks of wood deep in her armour somewhere, her face dirty and hair dusty from having gone unceremoniously through a wall.

When at last she heard Danse again, she was lost to everything he’d spouted previously, and was stuck with merely staring at him.

“Well?” He questioned shortly, reiterating a question he’d asked while she wasn’t paying attention.

“Well, what?” she echoed.

“Are you here to kill us?” he stated again, one syllable at a time. “Scribe Haylen is already wounded, and Rhys,” he paused, and the words stuck to the floor as he stared down.

The Paladin lost another one, Turner surmised.

She wasn’t ignorant to what happened to Danse’s old comrade, Carver, and what befell him, and she wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire.

“We’re all that’s left at this station.” Danse’s voice grew quiet, like he was pushing back a memory, “I’ll ask you again: what do you want?”

“The vertibird.” Turner stated simply. She held Danse’s fusion core gingerly in her metal hands, afraid that if she squeezed too hard the battery would explode.

She wondered, for a moment, if she gave the core back, if he would stand down and allow them to be diplomatic, considering she now knew he was caring for an injured scribe.

“You don’t even know how to fly one. You weren’t trained.” He spat out some blood that ran into his mouth, his teeth dyed red as he fought at the bitter taste of copper left behind.

“Why didn’t you take it back to the Prydwen if you were in trouble? I don’t understand.” Turner shook her head. It didn’t add up that the Paladin wouldn’t pilot the damn thing if he knew the life of one of his own hung in the balance. “Do _you_ know how to fly a vertibird?”

Danse snorted and looked off to the side. He would never admit he didn’t know how to fly one—it was Rhys and Haylen who took care of it. Turner didn’t need to know that, though. It wasn’t embarrassing to admit.

It was humiliating.

The sound of fingers tapping against the doorframe sounded through the room, and together Turner and Danse looked at what caused the disturbance.

“I do!” Deacon announced rather merrily, but was quickly cut off by Tinker Tom shoving himself into the doorway.

“I do, actually. Deacon’s just tryin’ to take all the credit.” Tom corrected, hitting Deacon’s chin with the top of his head as he stood up fully.

“Go find Nick.” Turner ordered them with a hint of worry in her voice now that she couldn’t see the synth in the lobby, and then stared back at Danse on the floor. “If I let you out of that armour, will you cooperate?”

“With the Railroad? Hardly.” He retorted somewhat viperously.

“I’m not asking you to join us. I just want you to stand down.” Turner let her free hand slap against the metal that protected her thigh, “You can get that scribe out of here, find a settlement that can help. We’ve got stimpaks, too, if you need some.” She tapped the top of her head for emphasis, the spot from which Danse now had a large swell.

The Paladin bowed his head in contemplation and thought, though he honestly couldn’t do much else given his current predicament.

Lawn ornament, coffee table, and foot rest looked to be his only viable job options if he didn’t move soon. And eventual death. And the death of Haylen.

“Let me out.” He answered flatly at last, his head lowered in defeat.

Turner placed Danse’s fusion core under her chin and moved around to his back. With the ease of her mechanical frame, the Paladin’s armour opened with a hiss. Danse clambered from the immobile unit less than pleased and stumbled back when he was at last able to right himself.

Danse was shorter than she remembered, though it took her a second to realise she was currently stuffed into a suit built for a man a foot taller than her. He rubbed the blood from his face with his sleeve and held his forehead to stem the trickle of blood from his crown. The padded coif he wore on his head was discarded and used as a rag, already stained with blood.

He seemed worse for wear the longer Turner inspected him: he looked like he hadn’t slept in several days and his orange jumpsuit hung loosely on his frame like he was malnourished. How long had he been out in the field?

Gripping the fusion core in her hand, Turner headed through the door and out into the lobby. Several of the Railroad agents were now searching about even though she had yet to give the all-clear, some of them gathered at the door leading to where Paladin Danse collected himself.

Turner thumped into the other room where the injured Haylen was kept, Nick and Deacon already looking her over. Tom was waiting by the door, fiddling with an odd contraption he’d found in the mess of a barrier.

Deacon injected a stimpak into the woman’s leg, but the effort would be for naught if she didn’t seek full medical attention and soon. If the wound wasn’t cleaned and dressed properly, it would turn gangrenous—Danse needed to get her to a medic, and fast.

When he realized Turner entered the room, Nick stood from his position next to Deacon and approached her. “You alright, or did the jarhead knock a few screws loose?” He noted the fusion core in her hand, but didn’t say anything, and looked over her face for any bruises.

Turner let him continue, but stopped him when he tried to spy through the door and across the hall. “He’s still alive. He’s agreed to stand down.” She fiddled with Danse’s fusion core before handing it to the curious synth.

He took it with a hint of skepticism and turned it about in his hands, “You sure that’s smart?” he asked in a whisper. He knew he should have known better when he noticed Turner was somewhat distraught, and handed her back the core, “I get you don’t wanna kill people you knew. Believe me.” He pulled his mouth into a thin line, “I ever tell you about Skinny Malone?”

“Deacon, Tom, you guys ready to fly a vertibird?” Turner asked over the top of Nick’s head, her heavy hands on his shoulders.

“Yep!” Tom bounced up and beat Deacon out the door and into the lobby, the other agent left behind with his mouth wide open.

Before Deacon had a chance to exit, though, a wobbling Danse came through the doorway, a rag on his forehead and a scowl on his face. He shooed Deacon away from Haylen and took his place, setting a glass bottle of some unknown alcohol and a bundle of cloth on the floor.

“Take the vertibird and leave.” He stated bluntly. “Good luck trying to accomplish whatever it is you’ve got planned, traitor. Maxson won’t let you go free again.”

Heading around Nick, Turner placed his fusion core on the floor next to him and stepped back. Nick followed in tow as she exited, the synth’s glowing eyes traveling from the Paladin back to the woman in armour in front of him.

Deacon was last to follow after, only when he was certain Danse no longer posed a threat to them.

Danse took a moment to look over Haylen before he got to work trying to help her, glad to see the Railroad had done something to aid her while he and Turner were having a spat. He knew he should have known better than try to engage in a fight when someone needed his help, but at the sight of Turner he’d lost his senses.

With a hand over his eyes to collect himself, Danse sighed and got to work.

\---

When Riddik arrived with one less knight and a ghoul in tow, Maxson was furious, and even far less happy when told what transpired in Diamond City.

“Your mission was to return with Ridley Turner! You’ve cost the lives of two of your knights from your insubordination! And now you’ve told the people of the Commonwealth that the Brotherhood is not to be trusted!”

Riddik let the Elder vent away his frustrations at the time, the ghoul locked away in a cell for the scientists and scribes to prod and examine before the inevitable befell it.

But the more and more Riddik listened to Maxson rant and rave about their inability to follow orders, the more they were told they’d disrespected the Elder and the Brotherhood as a whole, how they weren’t serving the greater good of the wasteland… they felt something _snap_ inside. Like a cord pulled too far, like a single cable holding the Prydwen in place.

Now that they walked down the length of the Brotherhood dirigible, their heavy steps causing the walkway to shake and rattle, Riddik contemplated the Elder more closely.

True, Riddik’s mission was, first and foremost, to retrieve the traitorous Turner, and yet the Railroad had been a thorn in their side ever since they’d arrived in the Commonwealth. Surely, Maxson could see that they needed to be dealt with?

Their Elder came from the Maxson line—proud, strong, brilliant strategists loyal to the Brotherhood alone. And there Arthur Maxson was, upset that a few insignificant knights had been sacrificed to purge a problem, like pawns in a game of chess. No technology had been lost. Nothing of value.  

Riddik gripped the pole of their powered sledge as they continued to the aft end of the Prydwen, to the cell block where the ghoul was being held.

Maxson must have known death was inevitable in the grand scheme of things, and perhaps Knights Four and Nine, whatever their real names had been, hadn’t been good enough to make the cut for the future of humanity.

One was felled by Turner, and the other by some mutant. That was proof enough.

Riddik scoffed, the noise robotic and inhuman through their helmet’s vocalizer. They approached one of the several cells, a scribe glancing up lazily at the feeling of heavy footfalls. Their tune changed drastically, however, when they realized the approaching mass was none other than the caped Paladin and scarpered over to a nearby terminal.

Anything was better than being near the infamous Paladin, up and including throwing oneself from the hangar bay.

Riddik stared into the cell where the ghoul sat against the chain link wall, his coat cattywampus on his shoulders, his grin even more so. The smell of the ghoul was horrendous—it was astonishing what the masses of the wasteland could put up with. The stench of rotting meat was not one Riddik enjoyed.

The way the ghoul smirked at him ignited an annoyance on top of the one the Elder had given them. Another bit of anger they would have to deal with eventually.  

“Ain’t gonna work the way you want, shit-for-brains.” Hancock muttered as he bit at what was left of his fingernails. He sat with his legs splayed, one arm thrown behind his head to work as a pillow. If the ghoul’s grin was any wider, his face would split in two, “’Sides, _you_ know, and _I_ know that Turner’s not stupid. Even if she comes, she ain’t gonna come alone.”

He chuckled at a silly euphemism in the back of his mind, and ran his tongue along the side of his mouth, “Way you’ve been tryin’ to play with little Ridley tells me you’ve either got a huge hard-on for her, or you don’t know how to let shit go. I’m thinkin’ it’s the latter.”

Riddik slammed their fist against the fencing and dented it significantly. They could simply kill the ghoul now, and if Turner didn’t arrive as expected, they would merely leave the mutant’s corpse on her doorstep as a message. But they knew that would ruin any enjoyment they’d gain from the ordeal.

They wanted to end the ghoul right in front of her, slay another of her loved ones right before her very eyes.

“Tryin’ to impress the boss, then?” the ghoul continued, obviously enjoying the way Riddik reacted to his jabs, “Somethin’ tells me the boss isn’t too keen on your plan—ain’t goin’ the way you expected, huh? Get used to it.”

Paladin Riddik turned their back to the ghoul and his mockery. He posed no threat to them. Not then, stuck in a cell like a feral animal—not ever. The ghoul looked to be a fragile thing, all skin and bones, barely weighed down by his clothes alone lest the wind blow him away.

“I hurt your fi-fi’s? The ghoul continued to mock as Paladin Riddik began to walk away, back toward the hangar, back to the cold winds that would allow them to think more clearly.

Maxson was wrong. Riddik served the Brotherhood proudly, pushed and idolized the ideals of the Elders out west. It was Maxson who no longer held true to the Brotherhood’s ambitions, and it could be blamed on that damnable Lyons and his wretched daughter.

It was… _unfortunate_.

Riddik pushed open the heavy, metal door into the hangar and tread past a knight who kept watch. Their cape billowed about in the winds, the weight of the armour keeping them from flying off the gangway.

They’d done nothing wrong in their attempts to thwart Ridley Turner and the Railroad, in their path to destroy the Institute and the Railroad all together. It was merely killing several birds with one swing of their hammer. Or several swings, if they refused to die.

No.

Riddik was the one in the right, right for everything they’d done up to that point.

The heat in their chest grew at the thought, their powered sledge held ever tighter in their hands.

The East Coast Brotherhood needed a new Elder, a new leader who resigned themselves to the true way of their ancestors.

Maxson was wrong. The Elder was **wrong**. And Riddik knew then—

Maxson had to die.

\---

Turner and the Railroad take the vertibird to the skies in a race to save Hancock—and to end the second biggest threat to the Commonwealth! When they arrive, will Maxson uphold his duties to the Brotherhood and meet Turner head on, or will he show compassion?

Stay tuned for the next chapter!

Chapter 25: Pallas’ Fall

\---


	25. Pallas' Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the kudos! We're so close now to being finished, I almost don't want it to end! 
> 
> Also, thanks to snowofthewastes over on tumblr for suggesting a song for Paladin Riddik! 
> 
> "I can't quite figure out why, but the song Number 13 by Nothing But Thieves makes me think of Riddik." 
> 
> I couldn't agree more!

 

\---

The view from aboard the vertibird was spectacular.

The landscape sped past them as the VTOL flew through the sky high above the remains of Boston, the side doors left open so Turner could keep watch for any accompanying vertibirds. If they were to avoid as much conflict as possible, they would have to keep a low profile—no mid-air tricks or funny business from Deacon and Tom.

Turner took a deep breath and held the frigid air in the base of her chest, exhaling through her nose slowly when the pressure proved too much.

From the cockpit, the sounds of Deacon and Tom could be heard. At first, they’d bickered over who would be captain, then they “fought” over the position of the pilot, in which chair they would sit, and then they slapped at each other’s hands over who could play with the various knobs and dials spread across the dashboard, even if they didn’t know what the dials themselves did.

When they first entered the vertibird, after the first girlish slap-fight between the two Railroad agents, Deacon found himself a T51-B power helmet stashed away toward the back, thrown haphazardly in an unlocked metal crate. Whether the helmet was there as a replacement for the Paladin, Danse, they left behind in the police station, or as a general precaution, Deacon nevertheless plopped it upon his head. He then declared himself captain and demanded with a rather muffled voice “to speak with your leader”.

It wobbled from side-to-side as he made his way from the back of the vertibird to the front, brushing past Turner and Nick as they readied themselves for the journey. He relinquished the helmet to Turner, however, when he realized he couldn’t see the controls in front of him, placing the helmet on a hook not far from where she held fast to the VTOL.

Seated next to the doorway, Turner was glad most of the noise was lost to the winds.

Down below, she followed a group of super mutants as they tried in vain to throw bricks at their vertibird, and missed by a longshot. At least they made an attempt, even as the group continued undeterred to the south.

The mutants’ shouts could be heard, followed by the tell-tale beeping of a triggered mini-nuke, but they’d already traveled far enough away that the mutants proved no threat, nuke or otherwise.

Popping her lips, Turner glanced over at Nick, who clung to the handle at the edge of the doorway, his ragged coat waving about in the tumultuous winds. He held firmly to his hat and met her eyes when he felt them upon him.

“Nervous? He questioned loudly over the gale.

Turner nodded and adjusted her feet when the vertibird listed to the left somewhat, “Yeah—when I find Hancock,” Alive or dead, she thought, “I’ll bring him back to the vertibird. If Maxson gets in the way, I’ll deal with him.”

The plans of the mission were flimsy at best, bound to change at a moment’s notice depending on situation. What if Hancock wasn’t even on the Prydwen, and the rescue was all for naught? She would still try to bring an end to the Brotherhood’s interference in the Commonwealth, even if it meant one of her closest friends was truly lost in the process—she knew it could be an inevitability she would have to accept.

Turner faced into the vertibird and cupped a hand around her mouth to yell at Deacon and Tom, “I want you guys to get in contact with the guys on the ground. Don’t fire on the Prydwen unless we’ve made it down or I give the go-ahead.”

“Don’t wanna go down with the ship, captain?” Deacon questioned when he was met with Turner’s less than pleased expression. He knew the situation was tense, but he couldn’t help his inherent sarcasm from leaking out.

“I’d rather she didn’t.” Nick finished for her, “I’d like to have her home in one piece.”

Turner would have blushed bashfully if her cheeks hadn’t already been dyed red, raw from the winds that blew against her face.

It was a comfort to know there could be something after everything was said and done, that the destruction of the Institute and potentially the Brotherhood didn’t mean the end of her new life, of her new family. That even when things “calmed down” in the Commonwealth after all this commotion, that maybe she could forge something deeper with Nick, and even Hancock.

Broken from her thoughts of the future, Turner steadied herself and let her brows furrow in determination, “When we approach the Prydwen, you’re gonna want to fly up from the bottom into the hangar. Me and Nick will take off from there.”

“Sure you don’t wanna go in guns-blazing?” Deacon asked, his knee propped up dangerously on the console, his sunglasses hiding the bemused look in his eyes.

Merely shaking her head, Turner returned her gaze to the Commonwealth below. She would let the two pilots handle the rest of the journey without comment… which was probably for the best when Deacon was involved.

“I remember when these vertibirds used to frighten the Brotherhood.” She reminisced aloud after realizing where she was, and it piqued Nick’s curiosity.

He gave her an inquisitive stare that begged her to continue.

“Back in D.C., I think I was twelve or something, the Enclave used to pilot these things. Wasn’t much we could do about them until we got the original Liberty Prime up and running. Thing hurled nukes like you couldn’t believe.”  

Nick didn’t much know what a “Liberty Prime” was, but if the thing could “hurl nukes” like some kind of pre-war quarterback, then maybe he didn’t want to know. “What’s the Enclave, then?” he questioned, having never heard of the group.

“Pre-war military kinda like the Brotherhood, but they were trying to bring a system of government back into power. Presidents and stuff.” Turner spied into the distance where she knew the airport was located, squinting her eyes against the cold, “Sometimes, I used to listen to Eden’s broadcasts when we were in the yard of the Citadel. The older knights would keep them on. Used to call it ‘lazy reconnaissance’.”

Nick didn’t have much to talk about when it came to pre-war politics. He, or at least human Nick, hadn’t thought much of the presidency at the time, and he didn’t much concern himself with the affairs outside the United States. Tensions had been terribly high, and not just with Eddie Winter and his gang causing trouble for Boston, but the looming nuclear crisis, outrageous petroleum costs, and general “red-scare” paranoia.

All-in-all, Nick would have rather not thought about it.

“Someone from the vault helped out the Brotherhood, though. I don’t remember too much from ten years ago, but I _do_ remember the vault thing. One-oh-one, I think.” Turner went to wipe the moisture from her nose, but shook her head when thick, metal fingers scraped at her skin. She was already acclimated to the suit, it seemed.

“Thought you were like a steel trap?” Nick joked, nodding his head at Turner’s inability to remember things from only a decade ago. Maybe she **chose** not to remember.

“I wasn’t allowed out of the Citadel unless it was to train with the recon teams. They were pushing for me to be a scribe like my dad.” Turner pushed her nose into the air and let out a sharp snort, “You stop growing at age ten, and they ask you ‘aren’t you a little short for a knight?’.”

“Not one for the desk job, then?” The synth tried to imagine Turner stuck in a dim, subterranean lab somewhere, surrounded by terminals, books, and mountains of paperwork. Oh, and short. He couldn’t forget short.

It didn’t suit her.

Not one bit.

And not the short part.

“But that vault-dweller helped us take down the Enclave, on the east coast, at least. Dunno about the west—Navarro didn’t go too well for them, or so I hear. But we got most of our vertibirds from them.” Turner shifted her shoulders and cleared her throat nervously, “Riddik’s armour is Enclave, too. It’s like a trophy for them, back from when the Jefferson Memorial was cleared out.”

Wanting to hear more about Turner’s past, about her time in the Brotherhood (before it became a scourge to the Commonwealth), if only to let her vent a bit, Nick snapped back to reality when Deacon interrupted the two of them.

Luck would have it no other way.

“Comin’ up on the airport, lovebirds.” Deacon removed his knee from the controls and threw an instructional manual over at Tom, “Get ready. Put your big girl panties on.”

“Not if you’re the one wearing them.” Turner spat back under her breath, but Deacon heard her unsurprisingly.

“What can I say? I like lace.”

Despite the mental imagery of Deacon sporting a pair of ladies’ undergarments, Turner couldn’t help but laugh.

Her anxiety grew, however, when the bow of the Prydwen drew near, the expanse of the ocean laid out behind it. The sun was drawing onto the horizon, the sky aglow in murky greys and oranges. It would have been a pretty sight, if Turner didn’t feel fear bubbling up in her throat.

It was a vile sensation, like an oncoming panic attack—but she steadied her breath, begging for the tightness in her chest to loosen.

There was no time for hesitation.

They were about to enter the hornets’ nest, for better or worse, and the idea of Maxson wearing a comically large stinger on his bottom didn’t help matters much.

Hopefully, no one save a guard would be in the hangar when they entered. It was common for at least one knight to be stuck with the miserable job of guard duty, left alone to stare out at the expanse of the hangar bay and airport beneath it. If so, they would have to be dealt with swiftly and quietly, if such a thing were possible.

“Get behind me.” Turner told Nick as she took the helmet off the hook and locked it into place on her head. Immediately, the synth detective complied and hid behind her currently-large frame, spying out from around her arm at the scope of the dirigible before them.

The Prydwen was massive, up close **and** far-away, the main body of the pre-war airship aged and blackened. The colour of it, which once would have been a brilliant red under all the dust and grime of years past was now a faded umber, lightened by the sun and the elements where it could even be seen. The tether that held it to the body of the airport’s main terminal made a strange, almost alien metal sound as it swayed in the wind, an odd echo made by the line being held under such high tension with smaller tethers slapping against it.

Nick would have said it sounded like laser fire if he had a mind to, but it wasn’t the time for idle commentary—not with the hangar in sight.

The dirigible would have been an even more formidable sight if lit by the nauseous green hue of a radiation storm, something that looked to be brewing off to the west just over the Glowing Sea. Give it an hour or two, and that storm would be right over them.

Deacon made a face the nearer they grew to the gangway, the blades of the vertibird turning to allow the VTOL to slide its way up into the hangar bay. The side of the vertibird knocked slightly against the metal walkway as a metal hook kept the whirlybird in place, Turner cringing at the obvious sound.

The knight stationed at the door that led into the interior of the Prydwen left their post for a moment and approached the curious vertibird, the barrel of their minigun aimed at the ground. To them, it might have just been an inexperienced pilot learning the ropes… or perhaps an experienced pilot who just so happened to be more experienced in the drinking department.

Turner kept her gaze low to the ground as the knight approached, her helmet hiding her face and her armour hiding the now very nervous Nick behind her.

“I wasn’t expecting a team to come back so soon. Paladin Riddik was just out here.” The knight started, “Got that storm brewin’, though. Any problems?”

The knight must have been relatively new. Usually, when a vertibird checked in at the hangar, the pilot and reporting knight would record resources, losses, and such, but this one didn’t seem to know any better.

“We have a, uh… synth! Yeah! We captured a synth!” Deacon lowered the pitch of his voice from the cockpit, Nick’s eyes going wide at the bold-faced lie. Turner was glad she had a helmet to hide her features, because her jaw dropped at the unplanned confession by her associate.

Nick wasn’t beyond letting himself be used as a temporary scapegoat. He just wished they talked over it first.

The knight took a step back as Turner jumped from the vertibird onto the gangway, his minigun raised to aim squarely at the synthetic man in a messy trench coat and fedora, “You brought that _thing_ here?” he questioned angrily. “What if it’s a bomb?”

Turner made her way around the knight so that she stood at his back, her hands hovering around the handwheel positioned around his fusion core.

Nick stared at her anxiously, but remained silent, his hand raised to indicate he wasn’t a threat. Turner was up to something, he knew, he just wished he could read her expression at the very least.

With the knight distracted, Turner spun the handwheel on the knight’s back and released the seal on his armour, the joints locking into place as the seams split apart unwillingly. The knight yelled as he was yanked back out of his shell, kicking and punching furiously as Turner’s armoured legs and arms as she held him aloft.

Nick leapt from the vertibird and made his way around the barrel of the still-raised minigun, and watched as Turner lifted a balled fist.

From the doorway, Deacon appeared with Tom, a smirk plastered on his unshaven, scruffy face, “Already going off plan, huh?” he asked sarcastically, knowing he’d done it himself moments before.

“What’s the meaning of this, knight?!” The Brotherhood soldier continued, and was cut short when Turner slammed her raised fist against the top of his head.

Unlike Danse, the knight went silent, his head falling forward, unconscious.

Turner waddled over to Deacon and threw the limp knight up onto the vertibird, pushing him in until he and Tom could seat him in one of the empty chairs.

Belted in tightly, he wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned around and pushed against Nick’s back, urging him forward to the now empty suit of power armour. “I know you don’t have any training for one of these, but if a raider can climb into one, so can you, Tin Man.” She insisted when the synth dug his heels into the metal grate under him.

“We’re already at the ‘matching outfit’ portion of the relationship, huh, kid?” he joked, and pried himself away from Turner’s shoving.

Nick took it upon himself to stand at the back of the armour, the three Railroad agents staring him down expectantly. It would certainly be an experience, he knew, but he wasn’t so sure if he could readily control the suit of armour before him—synthetic or not.

Pulling his mouth into a thin line, he pulled the hat from his head and threw it over to Deacon. It wouldn’t fit into the helmet, no matter how much he wished it. He then pulled himself forward into the empty armour until his chest fell against the metal front of the cuirass, his hands sliding comfortably into place.

The armour rode a bit, just as Turner joked before back at Home Plate, though he supposed it was worse for her, organic and all that entailed. “Gonna ruin my coat wearin’ this thing.”

Coming around to his rear, Turner lifted the tails of his coat, pulled the back of the cuirass down, and turned the handwheel into place, securing Nick inside with a small near-hermetic hiss. “As if it didn’t look torn enough. We’ll get you a new one.” Giving the back of the armour a slap, she stepped away and let him acclimate, “You okay?”

Nick stood frozen in place for a few seconds, watching the way the light of his optics shone against the inside of the helmet’s lenses. He tried flexing his fingers first, the bare metal of his right hand scraping against the pulleys awkwardly—he would just have to make do. Next, he shifted his head, pushed his chest forward, and forced one leg out.

The armour refused to move at first, but after he gave a slightly stronger push, the hips of the power armour shifted and he lurched forward. In reality, it wasn’t Turner who needed a suit of baby’s first power armour, but Nick. “I won’t give ya flack ever again for wearin’ this damn thing. Feels like when I forget to lube my joints.”

“ **Lube**.” Deacon snorted, and earned stares from both Turner and Nick, though he could hardly see their expressions.

He knew they were less than enthused.

From inside, Tom appeared with a flare gun spinning around his finger, and threw it to Turner when the silence grew a bit too much even for him. “Shoot that off when you guys are ready to go, yeah? We’ve got another in the glove compartment right next to the road maps and registration.”

Whether this was the truth or not, she had no way of knowing—neither Deacon nor Tom would tell her even if she asked nicely.

 “You two head down and meet up with the others, if they’ve made it yet.” Turner ordered as she took the abandoned minigun left on the gangway and gave Nick the flare gun. There was no sense in letting Nick have the bigger of the two, not while he was still acclimating.

Nick followed Turner down the gangway without a word and toward the bulkhead that led inside. Deacon and Tom scurried back into position, the knight still unconscious in his seat, and began their exit from the hangar. Their “good lucks” were nearly inaudible under the loud boom of the approaching radiation storm, growing near faster than anticipated.

“How ‘bout that horsepower?” Turner asked now they were alone, her voice muffled by the audio receptor in front of her face. She had to admit, the synth detective got used to the armour far quicker than she would have thought. Maybe she hadn’t been talking out of her ass when she said, “if a raider could do it”.

Nick let out a breathy laugh and raised his hands in mock accomplishment, his fingers curled, “A guy could get used to this short of thing. Might not want to leave.” He jostled his helmet a bit, “Can’t say there’s an easy way to smoke in this sort of thing, though I guess that means I’ll have to kick the habit.”

“I don’t think they make ties or fedoras big enough for these things. You might have to get a new job, too.” Turner let out a yelp as Nick slapped the back of her armour, entirely unexpected, and much less expected given the situation. “C’mon, you wouldn’t fit through the agency door, and you know it.”

It was odd to look through the lenses, Nick could admit, and he watched as many of the suit’s internal monitors sounded off that something wasn’t quite right about its current occupant.

Despite resting on the peripherals of his vision, he did his best to ignore them as Turner opened the bulkhead door. She placed the minigun next to it where the knight stood moments before—it would only slow them down if she carried it inside.

 “You ready?” she whispered, and headed in first when Nick nodded in return.

She quickly adjusted Nick’s helmet and gave it a pat on top—it would do them no good if they stuck out too much. Turner could walk relatively normal, but her companion was still as wobbly as a freshly-born radstag.

The bulkhead was heavy and squealed loudly when Nick pulled it shut behind him, his hand refusing to unclasp for a moment from the handle of the door. Together, they trudged inside, to the quiet interior of the lower deck. Or it would have been quiet, were it not for the various computers and consoles on the floor below.

The room was lit by red guide lights around the ceiling of the interior, eerie shadows sent this way and that as the light struggled to bounce through the space.

Far ahead, in a room adorned with windows that overlooked the terminal structure of the airport, stood Maxson, his back turned to them. He seemed to contemplate the approach of the storm down the coast, his gloved fingers caught in his neatly-trimmed beard.

Naturally, Turner led Nick up the walkway that bled into the main body of the dirigible, and poked her head out into the landing before they walked into the open.

Nick chose to stay silent, and let Turner lead him to where they needed to go. This was uncharted territory for him, not matter how much he would like to say he knew better. The young woman in front of him was in charge, and he would be damned if he thought or told her otherwise.

Stopped before a large room that served as the canteen, Turner changed course and headed toward a stairwell that led to the floor above, to what looked to be a barracks of sorts. There, soldiers slept, their wool blankets, thin with age, some of them taken from other bunks to compensate, their footlockers left open and catawampus at the foot of their cots.

Nick was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t have been, when none of them woke to the sounds and rumbles of their heavy footfalls. He supposed they were used to the commotion by now.

Even on the Prydwen, it was a bit out of place for a group of knights to be seen in the specimen area, but the scribes at work merely sent Turner and Nick annoyed glances before they returned to their tasks.

Together, they looked down over the safety railing and into the small cluster of cells below. Situated in one were several emaciated mole rats, their bellies distended as they lay lethargic on the floor. Their wheezes were the only indication they were still alive.

Next to them, in another block, was a bundle of red and black, the unmistakable figure of Hancock seated in the corner farthest away from the door.

Turner gripped the railing tightly, the metal crimping between her fingers. She knew the ghoul had always been as thin as a twig, as he spent far more time with his chems than he did with any amount of food. But she knew the scribes wouldn’t dare waste food or water on a “mutant”, if only in the name of _research_.

They scarcely did it back in the Capital, so they certainly wouldn’t try now.

She stood there silently and calculated their next move, Nick at her side, waiting and watching.

Turner could go down there, request the door be opened to dispose of the ghoul, drag Hancock down to the hangar, reveal herself, and signal for Deacon and Tom to return. But what if they refused to let him out? What if Riddik or Maxson happened by? There’s no way the obvious, red IX on the chest of her armour wouldn’t be a dead giveaway.

She bit her lip and struggled to even her breathing, the rumble of thunder heard outside the walls of the airship. Maybe they could use the coming storm as a means of distraction if and when they made it back into the hangar? Many wouldn’t dare fly during such inclement conditions, even some of the most well-seasoned pilots… though she supposed trusting Deacon and Tom to do what a senior pilot couldn’t would be less than wise.

“What’s the plan, kid?” Nick whispered after he took a quick look behind them, sure that no one heard him.

Turner thought back to only a short time ago, when she found herself on a rescue mission much like this one of her own making. The Railroad agents she went to rescue had been dealt with long before her arrival at Maxson’s behest. It would do her no good to try the same tactic, to boldly walk up to the cells.

No, she needed to speak to someone first, make it official.

And the scribes behind them would do just the trick.

“Stay here for a sec.” she replied at last, a hand on Nick’s pauldron. Without another word, she spun to walk toward the scribes across the room, her stride heavy and confident.

“Be authoritative.” Turner told herself quietly in the confines of her helmet, “Just act like a knight, like you used to.” her eyes screwed shut for a moment as she neared one of the scribes, his back hunched away from her over a lab table. “Tell him Maxson wants the ghoul disposed of… that the ghoul wasn’t meant to be brought here, and should be transported to the ground for Riddik to—”

“Can I help you, knight?” The scribe drawled over his glasses, now facing the awkwardly silent Turner. He flipped up several loupes meant for magnification and stared her down, his eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the change in light. “Or has Riddik sent you to observe us again?”

The scribe’s mouth was fallen into a permanent scowl, the bags under his eyes heavy with lack of proper sleep. He must have been in his late thirties, but looked to be nearing fifty with the way he carried himself: shoulders sagging heavily, his skin pale, the veins just beneath prominent in the unnatural light of the lab.

Turner vaguely recognized him from a year or so ago, back when she spent her time on the Prydwen when not out on reconnaissance missions. The scribe had been the head doctor at the time—Doctor Horrigan, maybe? Now scuttled back to the very ass-end of the Prydwen for research and dissection, while another, more charismatic doctor took his place.

He was tired, and not at all privy to idle chit-chat.

An opening had presented itself, however.

“Yes.” Turner answered simply, her back suddenly ramrod straight. “Riddik… _Paladin_ Riddik sent me and my associate,” she paused and motioned to Nick behind her, “to request the ghoul in Cell A be moved down into the terminal.” She placed a metal fist against her chest, the clang sending Horrigan back with a less than pleased face, “We’ve heard reports of Railroad activity. The ghoul was taken from a Railroad safehouse, and we believe they may be staging an attack.”

Not necessarily a lie.

The scribe stared at her skeptically, and the look on his face aged him nearer to sixty. No doubt he recognized the red Roman numeral on her chest, knew the armour belonged to one of the infamous Paladin’s knights. To talk back to them would be to talk back to Riddik—something that was ill-advised even when Turner was _with_ the Brotherhood.

“And I suppose they sent you to carry out the trash rather than do it themselves? To no one’s surprise?” Horrigan had a sharp tongue, Turner couldn’t help but notice. No wonder he’d been sent as far from everyone as possible.

“Fine. But do it quietly. The other scribes and I have delicate procedures in the process.” He stood straight, his back cracking loudly, and headed to a flight of stairs at the edge of the platform, situated between two lab tables.

Nick hurried after Turner when she waved him forward, and tried his best to ignore the two immobile synths that lay on either table, many of their parts scattered and destroyed.

If they’d arrived any later, the synths might have been Hancock, instead.

\---

Turner descended the stairs with Nick in tow, Horrigan at the front of their group.

He pulled down his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

Horrigan didn’t much care for the smell of ghouls, especially not ones who thought themselves particularly witty and charming, and **especially** not ones who dressed themselves like pre-war freedom fighters. And he found himself cursing under his breath now that he had to deal with said ghoul for the second time that day. To look at that crooked smile and blackened stare.

Earlier, it was to stop the ghoul’s incessant singing—purposefully off-key and caw-like.

And now? To kowtow to Paladin Riddik’s fickle whims.

Railroad threat be damned—if helping the two knights behind him meant he could be given some peace and quiet for once in the past few days, then so be it.

Turner kept quiet and resolute, Nick following her lead as they approached the cell at the end of the row. In front, Horrigan shuffled up to the cell door and fumbled in his coat pocket for what must have been the keys.

How hard would it be to figure out which key went where when there were only two cells was beyond Turner, but to her own chagrin the key ring he pulled out had to have a key to every lock on the Prydwen.

Because of course it did.

Who else would carry them? Maxson?

The only thing keeping him afloat was all that hot air in his head. Last thing he needed was a counterweight.

But Horrigan seemed to know exactly which key fit into the lock, and on the first try he slid the door open and allowed Turner inside with the wave of an arm.

His hand fell to his side unceremoniously a second later, a dull thud against the fabric of his coat. His work was done, and now he could return to his _other_ work. Important work. Scientific work.

Work where he could be left **alone**.

Turner stood at the doorway of the cell and stared inside, at the ghoul who looked to be asleep in the far corner. She could only think such as his tricorn was pulled low over his face, his legs crossed at the ankle, and his hands laid out on his lap. It would be just like Hancock to not take the situation too seriously, not when life or death was involved.

At least his own life or death.

“Thanks, doc.” Nick started out from around Turner, if only so Horrigan could see him. “That’ll be all.” He tapped the side of Turner’s arm and broke her from her one-sided staring contest with the ghoul in the cell.

“Yes! Thank you.” Her head danced from Nick to Horrigan, “Thank you. That’s all we needed. Thank you.”

“Say ‘thank you’ again,” she thought dismissively, glad that her scrunched face was hidden, “I’m sure it will sound totally natural and not at all suspicious. That’s just the way a knight under Riddik’s command would talk.”

Horrigan let out a derisive snort through his nose, thoroughly displeased with the events that transpired and how much potential time he’d lost with his experiments. Now that it was over, though, he excused himself without a word and shoved past the two of them toward the stairs.

He disappeared soon after, and together Turner and Nick exchanged looks.

“Shoulda given him a curtsey, while you’re at it.” Nick joked when Turner appeared physically uncomfortable, neither of them aware that the ghoul was watching from under the wide brim of his hat. “Didn’t know ‘thank you’ was in your vocabulary.”

“I said ‘thank you’ for the bear you gave me.” She whispered in retort, short with the disguised synth that was readily betraying their identities.

From the corner, a short laugh escaped the too-thin ghoul, a devilish smile splayed on what remained of his lips, “Thought I recognized that voice.” Hancock drawled, stifling a yawn under his loose coat sleeve. “You were never good at saying ‘sorry’, either, Sunshine.”

Turner stepped into the cell fully and approached Hancock, who still hadn’t pulled himself up from the floor. He cradled his arm with a wince, his smile having not left yet. “You alright?” she questioned quietly, as if the volume of her voice would break the rest of him.

With a roll of his shoulders, the ghoul let his head fall back against the corner of the cell, his hat popping off his brow, “Been better, but I ain’t complainin’. Wouldn’t mind see ya without the helmet, but I get what you’re goin’ for.” His gaze shifted to Nick, who stood waiting at the door just in case someone else happened by, “You got her back safe and sound, then? I owe you a drink, Nick.”

“You can owe me when we get outta here.” Nick peeked over his shoulder, and found the area devoid of any wandering eyes, “Let’s get goin’, kid. This place is making my skin crawl.”

“Can you get up?” Turner asked as she dropped onto one knee. Nick was right—the longer they stayed in the open, the quicker someone would catch on that they weren’t quite Brotherhood material.

A grin found its way onto Hancock’s cheeks, “You know better than to ask me if I can ‘get up’.” He clicked his teeth to emphasize his point (a point that would have made her blush at any other time), but Turner didn’t take the bait. “Alright, alright.” He waited a beat, “Later, though.”

A shaky hand found its way onto the chain link wall of the cell, and with a bit of a struggle, Hancock stood… for a moment.

Down he went onto his knees, a groan escaping him as his arm hung limp at his side.

Turner was quick to keep him upright, her arms wrapped under the lanky ghoul as he let out a weak chuckle. “We can take the lower level past the canteen, take the walkway down back into the hangar, and signal for the others.” With a practiced ease, she lifted Hancock up and turned toward Nick, “If anyone asks, we’re disposing of you.”

Hancock’s face became unreadable. Not disappointed, but more bemused if anything. “Disposing? What, like throwing me in the trash? The prick with the cape already tried rattling my cage; ain’t much these guys can do to scare me.”

“They would have put you in front of a firing squad eventually.” Turner added, if only to make a point. The idea of Hancock laughing his way to his inevitable death at the hands of a bunch of knights made a boulder form in the pit of her stomach. He would never let them have the satisfaction of cowering, of begging for his life.

He joked now, thought the Brotherhood wouldn’t do everything within their power to see that he suffered until he expired—Riddik was playing a waiting game, and nothing more—but if Turner and Nick hadn’t showed up when they did, the ghoul wouldn’t have lasted much longer.  

“Who would Goodneighbor look up to, then, huh?” With a jostle to make Hancock pay attention, Turner struck home, right where it truly hurt, “Or would you rather someone like Vic take over again?”

The ghoul’s face fell then, his eyes half-lidded as reality suddenly slapped him. And not in a fun way. “Alright, alright, you made your point.”

With a nod in the direction of a stairwell that led to the lowest level of the Prydwen, Turner carried Hancock away from the cell block, Nick following in tow with his eyes trained every which way. They were making progress, and it wouldn’t be long before they found themselves back outside and on solid ground.  

\---

The metal floor of the walkway groaned under the considerable weight of Riddik as they made their way toward the back of the Prydwen. Their thoughts were abuzz with ideas on how to best deal with Maxson, on how to depose of an Elder of the Brotherhood without being branded a traitor much like Turner.

For now, though, only one thing interested them—and that was the ghoul.

Riddik gripped at the handle of their powered sledge tightly, all-too prepared to vent their frustration on the object of Turner’s affection. It wasn’t that damn synth, that would-be detective who thought himself a man, but the ghoul for whom she had a particular fondness.

The synth would have to come later, with something a little more elaborate. More elaborate than what they’d done with Turner’s previous beau, Metro, at least.

They passed through the canteen, many of the soldiers within giving pause to stare the massive Paladin down as they trudged through wordlessly, without apology when they knocked into a small scribe.

It didn’t matter in the end. None of it did.

If any one of them supported their Elder and what he stood for, then Riddik would strike them down equally. They had to return the Brotherhood to its western glory, to the brutal history they’d established so long ago.

No more soldiers taken in out of the wastes. No more fraternizing with those born out of the circles. No more sullying the Brotherhood of Steel’s legacy.

Riddik stomped into the cell block, the stench of the mole rats leaking in through their armour: putrid and fetid.

Immediately, they saw something was amiss.

The door to the ghoul’s cell was open and unguarded, Riddik’s gait increasing until they practically ran up to the cell. The handle of their hammer squealed as they gripped it even tighter, their eyes trained on the now empty space within.

The ghoul was gone.

The door of the cell flew from its frame, ripped from its tracks and thrown across the room in a fury. The mole rats in the next cell shrieked with fear, gathered into the corner away from Riddik and their rampage as a guttural yell escaped them. Several of the soldiers in the canteen poked their heads out to spy at the commotion, but disappeared when the Paladin slammed their sledge down against the floor.

Above, Horrigan tried his best to ignore whatever temper tantrum the two knights were having—no doubt dealing with the ghoul in the confines of the Prydwen rather than taking it outside like they’d been ordered.

With an exasperated sigh, he slapped his hands against his lab table and ripped the gloves from his fingers. Would there be no quiet that day?!

Across the lab, Horrigan huffed, until they made it to the railing at the edge of the platform. Not waiting to see what the commotion was, he clung to the metal rail and bellowed to the floor below, “Do you mind?! Some of us are trying to work, you—”

The blood in Horrigan’s veins froze when he realized who stood in the wreckage of what was once a cell.

Golden lenses turned slowly to train on him, the unmistakable armour of Paladin Riddik sending shivers down his spine.

Horrigan swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed away from the rail as Riddik’s ire was now trained on him. And with no care to his fellow scribes, he began to race down the walkway toward the bunk area, if only to hide himself away somewhere.

The Paladin was notoriously short tempered, and it would do the scribe well to make himself scarce.

Riddik, however, was faster— _much, much faster_.

Up the stairwell they went, slamming the lab tables aside that stood in their path, and charged after Horrigan. The soldiers that were asleep not too long ago popped from their bunks and watched the Paladin donned in X0-1 armour plow through a standing locker on their way after the scribe, unaware of what just transpired.

Horrigan tripped up the steps that led to the forecastle, and clutched at their chest. It had been too long since they exercised, and now certainly wasn’t the time they wanted to start!

What had possessed Paladin Riddik so? Hadn’t they ordered the ghoul to be taken from the cell? To be taken to the ground and disposed of?

A trick! It had to have been a prank! It was always him! Who better to pick on than the doctor stripped of his title and thrown to the farthest recesses of the Prydwen?

Horrigan had been goaded into gaining the ire of the Paladin, and to what end? Those two knights wouldn’t hear the end of this, that was for damned sure!

He took a sharp turn and hid behind one of the large ballasts that lined the top half of the Prydwen, a refuge away from the anger that radiated from the Paladin not far from his trail. Horrigan caught his breath and listened as the heavy footfalls faded for a moment, perhaps going in a different direction, away from him.

He would write a report and hand it to the Elder himself if he had to! This was inexcusable behaviour on the behalf of a Paladin. Where was Danse? Ingram? Someone who possessed a lick of sense that could knock some into Riddik?

The trembles in the floor grew nearer again, and before Horrigan had a chance to react, a hand flashed from around the ballast and gripped at the front of his uniform. It yanked him forward and into the face of Riddik, who now held him aloft several feet from the floor.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Horrigan yelled as Riddik moved forward toward the door that led to the outside of the forecastle, “You’re going to lose rank for this, you hear me?!”

Icy winds struck at Horrigan’s face as the door flew open, and out the two of them went. With their foot, Riddik slammed the door shut and threw the scribe to the floor unceremoniously. The head of their hammer came up to rest in their now free hand, their cape aflutter in the wind.

Horrigan scurried from the Paladin, and backed away on his bottom until he could put several feet between them. Out in the distance, the radioactive storm grew even nearer, the tingle of radiation buzzing through the air like electricity.

If he had a Geiger counter, the little machine would have been tittering madly.

“If you’re going to be mad at someone, punish those knights of yours!” Horrigan shouted over the winds, “I know they were yours—that girl with the IX on her chest—and the other! You punish _them_ , not _me_ for doing my damn job!”

This gave Riddik pause. They stopped their advance on Horrigan and stood staring down at the scribe.

_That girl with the IX on her chest_? The knights under Riddik’s command who wore roman numerals on their armour were down to all but one. XI was the only knight who remained.

And Nine had been left behind in Diamond City, in the Railroad Safehouse.

The girl could have been anyone, any of those insufferable Railroad agents looking to seek revenge on the Brotherhood for the destruction of their base at North End Church. Or she could have been…

**Ridley Turner—** there to save the ghoul, just as they’d thought.

Riddik shook with unheard laughter, their arms trembling as they struggled to contain their amusement. Horrigan could only watch as the Paladin bowed somewhat, their pauldrons falling forward when they cradled their power sledge to their chest.

The scribe could hear as the Paladin took in a deep breath and straightened themselves back to their full height.

Taking a step forward, Riddik continued their advancement, their hands coiled insanely tight around the metal grip of their hammer.

“What are you doing?” Horrigan demanded, and scurried back another foot to escape the Paladin.

Riddik stopped him with a heavy foot on his leg, and the bone beneath cracked loudly under the weight. Horrigan let out a scream when the Paladin let the brunt of their weight down, their body angled to hover over the fallen scribe.

Through tears and laboured breaths, Horrigan stared up at Riddik as they positioned the head of their sledge against the scribe’s nose—a light, almost playful tap.

Like a golf champ with a nine iron, Riddik pulled back and hoisted their hammer high into the air. And with one full sweep, the sledge snapped against Horrigan’s face with a sickening crack of bone, the scribe fallen back against the floor with a gurgle.

Riddik continued their assault even as the noises Horrigan made came to an end, their sledge coming down and down again, this way and that, the small rocket on the end of the head alight with a flame that burned a hot white.

They took a step back from what remained of Horrigan’s head, now a smear of red across the deck. More pressing matters had to be attended to now that Riddik was certain Turner made her way onto the Prydwen.

Gather Eleven, find the traitor with her pet ghoul and synth, confront Maxson, save the Brotherhood.

Riddik rolled their neck at the list that was building up before them. So much to do in such little time, and every second counted.

On the coast, the rad storm was nearly overhead, the sky a deep green. Lit by bouts of lightning, Riddik watched the sky roll, the waves not far from the Prydwen crashing up onto the shore violently.

Turner couldn’t have gone too far, not with the ghoul to carry out.

But maybe Maxson could come first? There weren’t many who would try to reason with the girl, and the Elder had been one of them—letting emotion control his actions instead of killing Turner when he had the chance—letting Riddik be done with it instead of bringing her back for a trial.

Riddik turned from the remains of Horrigan and headed to the bulkhead of the forecastle, their mind set on the Elder’s chambers.

No more waiting, no more thinking.

Riddik would show Maxson what it meant to be Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel! Show him how an Elder dealt with traitors!

\---

The storm had Arthur Maxson worried. He’d seen many times before what the storms from the Glowing Sea could do, but none as big as the one that loomed over them. There would be radiation sickness, a loss of supplies, not enough medicine—too many problems to count.

Maxson placed a hand against his forehead and made another round in front of the large window that was set at the bow of the Prydwen. At the base of the couch situated against the wall, several empty bottles of bourbon sat.

He tried not to drink when problems arose, but having been given the mantle of Elder at such an early age, he found it hard to cope. If it wasn’t the worry of carrying on his legacy, it was inciting anger against the Brotherhood, of alienating the people of the Commonwealth.

And then Riddik brought that ghoul onboard, daring the Railroad to strike back against them. Even in a small group, given a missile launcher or two, a few farmhands could chip away at the Brotherhood’s defenses.

He regretted giving the Paladin the job of capturing Turner, and was near to dismissing the whole idea. With the lives of several knights lost, and trust across the Commonwealth destroyed, Maxson worried their work had increased tenfold all because of some firebrand.

The door to the body of the Prydwen opened, and behind him Maxson could hear someone enter. With a sigh, he let his hand fall and he collected himself.

The Elder couldn’t be seen with a weary brow.

Turning to face the newcomer, Maxson wasn’t surprised to see Paladin Riddik in the doorway, the head of their hammer on the ground.

He was irked, though, when he noticed the shine of crimson splattered across the worn metal of the weapon, and along the curves of Riddik’s armour. It hadn’t looked that way when the Paladin returned from the wastes, and he thought perhaps some of the specimens had escaped the lab.

“What is it you need now, Paladin?” Maxson asked tiredly. He’d already dealt with them enough that day, and the headache he had earlier threatened to return.

Riddik approached silently, their power sledge held inches away from the floor. Up close, Maxson could tell the red on their armour was blood, still wet and shining, the odour that wafted around them thick and unpleasant.

Maxson was a large man, but stood before Riddik he may as well have been a toddler. The Paladin towered over him, and even though there was no face to see, the Elder could feel cold eyes upon him.

With a dull thud, Riddik placed their hammer back on the floor and stepped away from it, continuing toward Maxson, until at last he had to take a step back.

“State your business, Riddik.” The Elder barked, his hand ready to take the pistol from his hip.

In a flash, Riddik lunged forward, their heavy arm swinging past Maxson as he dodged at the last second. Gun drawn and readied, he fired at the Paladin’s helmet, missing the golden lenses that adorned it.

The bullet ricocheted through the room until it shot out the window, Riddik sending another fist toward Maxson’s head.

The heavy punch landed against the reinforced glass, cracking it down to the metal inside. Riddik pulled away when a bullet struck at the mesh at the back of their knee, and spun to face Maxson across the room.

In a few short steps, the Paladin crossed the gap and took Maxson’s wrist. With a pained groan, the Elder relinquished his weapon as Riddik twisted his arm around near to breaking. And with their free hand, they slammed their fist up into his ribs.

Maxson wheezed as he fell to the floor, the urge to vomit rising in his throat.

To think he’d faced a deathclaw when he was young, and got away with the scar across his cheek to tell the tale. And now, a Paladin under his command sought to finish the job.

Hardly able to take a breath, Maxson couldn’t demand to know why Riddik fought him, threw him across the room like a ragdoll.

He rolled to a stop and clambered to his feet, the taste of blood on his tongue.

Before he could prepare himself, Riddik raced forward and grabbed hold of Maxson’s head, slamming it into the glass behind him.

The Paladin watched the Elder go still, not dead, but very much unconscious. No, Riddik wanted to make a lesson of Maxson, to all the Brotherhood.

And if it meant throwing Maxson’s head at Turner’s feet, they would make her see!

\---

Up next!

Chapter 26: Fall of the Brotherhood


	26. Fall of the Brotherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm sorry again for taking so long to update this, but my life has been exciting!
> 
> My cancer results came back from my most recent CT scan, and there aren't any signs of the cancer coming back (for now) or any metastasis! So that's great news! 
> 
> Turncoat has about one chapter left, which will lead into the sequel story, Call of Far Harbor, which I've been planning for so long now! QwQ 
> 
> But anyway, thank you for all the kudos, favourites, and comments! It really means the world to me!

\---

            Deacon stared up at the Prydwen, the sky now a murky, sickening green—darker through the shade of his lenses. The radiation storm that once sat down the coast now hovered over the Railroad agents dangerously.

Most of their forces waited in the wings, their group hidden on the fringes of the airport, their chosen spot behind the wall of a dilapidated office building. They cowered together under the remains of concrete and rebar, away from the droplets of irradiated rain that sprinkled the landscape.

As for the soldier that was making his rounds on the outskirts of the base, it would be too late for another patrol to realise one of their own had gone missing. If there was enough Brotherhood left to even bother.

            Deacon paced as he waited for the signal Turner and Nick were to give, that unmistakable shot of a flare gun from the hangar of the dirigible high up in the air. Pins pricked at his hands, nervous anxiety at waiting—if there wasn’t a signal soon, Desdemona would take things into her own hands, casualties or not.

            Making their way to the ground had been easy, if not fear-inducing. Hiding a vertibird behind the not-so-subtle and very-much-destroyed office building proved to be a bit of a challenge, but one Deacon saw through to the end with the help of Tom. Enough of their foolishness had gotten them into trouble in the past. So, when faced with a real threat, they finally worked together without their beloved snark. At least since Turner wasn’t there.

If she had been, it would have been the same old story.

            Regardless, Desdemona was unhappy with the whole situation. They'd been there for an hour or so before Deacon and Tom arrived, and even then, as the vertibird descended, they couldn't have known for sure if they were Railroad or Brotherhood. Or even a fortunate raider who managed to get their hands on pre-war tech.

            Des couldn't say she was pleased either way when Deacon came into view.

And now, they sat and waited for the signal to begin their assault on the Brotherhood of Steel's Commonwealth outpost, their small brigade of agents and would-be soldiers all too anxious to get up and moving.

Again, and again, Deacon could hear the others checking and rechecking their weapons, sure that their Fat-Man’s were primed and readied at any given moment. Despite the threat of the rad storm straight overtop them, they couldn’t turn back, not when they were so close to ending the newest threat to the Commonwealth and the Railroad.

At least they didn’t have to worry about the Institute rearing its ugly head.

            "Why didn't you just stay up there and wait? Why come all the way down here?" Desdemona asked through the din of the looming storm, she and a few others huddled under what was left of the second floor of the building.  

The question was a reasonable one of course, one Deacon couldn't deny, but he knew why Turner told him to wait down on the ground.

            "There was already a knight waiting when we arrived, Des." he clarified as he pushed his sunglasses further up onto his nose. "Would have been like a few sitting ducks if we stayed.” He gave pause, a small smirk on his cheeks, “Besides, I promised the lovebirds some space."

            The comment seemed to annoy Desdemona, the small quip about Turner and the synth detective that followed her like a shadow more than a slight grievance. He'd been there when North End Church was destroyed, he and that ghoul of hers.

And _again_ , when Valentine brought them into Diamond City.

And **_again_** , when he chased after her through the teleporter, straight into the heart of the Institute.

            Not to say Desdemona cared who Turner bedded in her free time, but hadn't she learnt her lesson after what happened to Metro? Hadn’t one mistake been enough?

A short, muffled hiss sounded from above, a thin line of light firing from the gangway of the Prydwen.

The signal.

Deacon stared back at Desdemona and nodded before he gave a small jump, running off in the direction of the hidden vertibird. He could already feel the reverberations of the machine in the distance, a low growl that fought against the dirge of the rad storm, a cacophony of metallic-sounding rolls of thunder.

Hopefully (as small a hope as it was), they would get Turner, Nick, and maybe Hancock off to safety before the real fun began. There wouldn’t be much time for error when a few dozen mini nukes came hurtling at the zeppelin.

But there would be one hell of a show.

\---

Turner handed Hancock off to Nick to hold for a moment, the ghoul thrusted less-than-delicately into the synth’s arms. The two men looked at one another, a sly grin on the mayor’s face at the prospect of being tossed around like a sack of potatoes. Or a bride-to-be.

Hancock didn’t even weigh as much as one.

The sack of potatoes, that is.

The ghoul groaned and adjusted himself against the hard chest plate of the detective’s suit of power armour, his eyes not leaving Turner as she removed her helmet.

Even though her hair was flattened against her brow, her face flushed with exertion, and a thin sheen of sweat on her cheeks, Hancock had to admit she was a sight for sore eyes. It was hard to believe she was actually there until she took off the armoured helm, like he sat  through nothing more than a bad trip from which he’d yet to come down.

He especially missed the way she pursed her lips when he didn’t say anything, and chose to give her a bashful smile when Nick jostled him back to reality.

Even though the smile was strained with fatigue, Turner let out a breathless laugh, “Don’t get used to being carried around,” she tipped the brim of his tricorn down over his eyes, “Last thing we need is Goodneighbor to have a mayor with a big head.”

Hancock moved the hat away from his face and patted Nick’s chest with his free hand, with the arm that didn’t hang limply in the wind, “I’ll have to figure out a reward for you and the tin man, here, then.” The ghoul’s shit-eating grin was only emphasized by the wink he gave the two of them.

The lofty fantasy the ghoul conjured up was broken when Nick cleared his throat, “Goodneighbor just wouldn’t be the same. Who’s gonna sit on a couch and huff jet all day?” he asked dryly, and noted the small smile Turner was trying her best to hide. “We’ll talk rewards when we’re out of this.”

“I only take jet in the morning, I’ll have you know.” Hancock excused, one leg jutting out to kick at the empty air, the tails of his coat wild in the wind. “Evenings are for my favourite past-time.”

“You want me to drop him?” Nick asked Turner, even though the servos of his suit hadn’t budged an inch under the ghoul’s weight, as meager as it was.

He was met with the shake of a head.

Out in the distance, the vertibird sounded. It would only be a few minutes now. Turner stepped forward and removed Hancock’s hat, placing a small peck against the top of his head. And despite the fact he tried to angle his face up for something more, he settled for the contact she gave him.

There would be time later for more serious shows of affection.

The three of them watched as a small dot on the horizon grew nearer, until the shape of a vertibird could be read in the fog. The blades spun rapidly, creating a whirlwind of mist as it drew up into the loading bay at the belly of the Prydwen.

Turner took a step back as the vertibird docked, the gangway shaking violently as the mechanisms in the ceiling worked to pull the vehicle inside. Hancock watched interested at the scope of it all.

When he’d been taken aboard by Riddik a few short days ago, it was almost as if he’d been in a stupor, half the ride a haze he could scarcely remember.

And not in a good way.

Together, Turner and Nick approached the vertibird as Deacon popped his head out from the pilot’s cabin. He waved them closer, the seat that previously held the unconscious knight now empty.

“Well, well, if it ain’t the king of Goodneighbor.” Deacon started at the sight of Hancock, “So, do I bow, or do you have a ring I can kiss?” he made a show of placing his arms akimbo and took a deep bow at the waist.

“I got somethin’ you can kiss.” The ghoul responded even as Nick hoisted him up into the cabin.

Turner glanced back to ensure the gangway was empty before she turned to the vertibird. Placed in the empty seat, Hancock leant forward and ran a hand down his face, thoroughly exhausted despite the airs he put on. It wasn’t hard for her to tell that the Brotherhood had been less than kind to him during his stay. And it was even easier to tell just by the way he held himself in front of her.

There was no use in hiding the hell he went through as he let Deacon give him a once over without another quip.

A loud crash broke the group from their collective silence, Turner spinning on her heel to stare at the now open bulkhead that led into the Prydwen proper.

There came a shiver down her spine, an electricity that rampaged through her body until it grew into a knot at the base of her neck. They were so close to being gone, being done with this whole crusade, as necessary as it was. But there was no stopping the sense of dread that overtook her as her eyes landed on the one person she dreaded to see that instant.

There, at the open door, stood Paladin Riddik, their armour splattered with a stream of dried crimson across their chest, a very limp Maxson held just slightly off the ground in one hand. In the other, sat their powered sledge, the head dragging against the ground as they made their slow descent down the stairs and onto the gangway. Behind them, XI strode just as confidently, if not more-so than Riddik, his chin raised high.

Maxson jerked clumsily forward with each step, Riddik not at all concerned with the well-being of the Brotherhood Elder. That much was obvious as the Paladin made it to the landing, from which they threw Maxson slightly ahead of them and onto the hard metal of the walkway.

The Elder rolled to a stop just inches away from the edge of the hangar bay—it was a mystery if he was even still alive.

Riddik stared them down, the golden lenses of their helmet aglow in the putrid green of the rad storm, their cape billowing out violently in the wind.

“Riddik.” Turner whispered under her breath, almost a question, the hand that held her helmet shaking with renewed fear. She could hear Hancock swear loudly from within the vertibird, but it hardly registered with her as the Paladin continued their approach.

Disregarding Hancock’s calls to come back, she walked forward cautiously and stood in the center of the walkway, if only to stop the Paladin’s advance. A laugh came from XI at the sight, though Riddik remained silent.

Her shoulders quaked under the heavy pauldrons of her armour, but she couldn’t let it show, couldn’t let Riddik see how they affected her now that she had nowhere to hide.

Nick leapt down from the vertibird to stand at her side, knowing his face remained hidden to the Paladin that now watched them closely. From within the vertibird, he heard Deacon fight to keep Hancock seated and away from what was about to unfold.

Without looking at him, Turner spoke, “Go back to the vertibird and get to the ground.” The demand was slow, monotone, the fear evident in her voice. Try as she might to keep it hidden, there was no use when it came to Nick.

She hated the dread it made her feel.

The thought that neither he nor Hancock would make it out of there alive triggered a switch in her, one that told her she would stay if it meant they could escape.

But the synth didn’t budge, and stood steadfast at her side, “I didn’t jump ship when tall, dark, and handsome here first started all this.” He began, his voice solid, “Didn’t run when they came chasing you at North End.” He glared at the Paladin and Knight that stood before them, “And I didn’t leave when the Institute stole you away. What makes you think I’m running now?” Even with his helmet on, Turner could feel the way his eyes bore into her, knew he meant every word.

Turner felt her throat grow tight, a familiar burning built up in her eyes. There wasn’t time for whatever she felt then, the soft warmth that now sat in her stomach.

If they made it out, she would show Nick just how much those words meant.

“Deacon,” Turner called out over the wind. The agent inside the vertibird struggled to keep Hancock in place even as she yelled to him, “Get Hancock out of here. Nick and I’ll take care of this.” She paused to look at Nick, “Tell Desdemona to start the assault.”

Deacon peered out for a moment from the confines of the cabin, watched as Paladin Riddik let their gaze wander to him for a brief second, before he returned to Hancock. XI appeared confused, their stance wide and head swiveling to watch for any more Railroad agents that were supposedly about.

The ghoul seethed at Deacon as he made a split-second decision, daring him to leave Turner behind just as they were together again.

But Deacon broke away from the ghoul and ran into the pilot’s cabin next to Tom, taking a seat promptly to begin their evacuation.

Seeing Deacon distracted with the console, Hancock went to unbuckle himself from his seat—even if he had to crawl his way out, he wasn’t going to let Turner feed herself to the wolves—not while he was still breathing.

But it wasn’t until he unbuckled the belt across his chest did he realise Deacon had fastened it into a knot, hiding the foul trick under the buckle in the commotion.

Where was his damn knife?

Turner could barely hear Hancock as a string of violent curses left him, intermixed with a few pleas not to leave. It was settled, however, and she felt a weight lift when the vertibird exited into the air safely.

It listed into the storm and began its escape, away from danger the Paladin and Knight presented.

Now alone with Riddik, XI, and Nick, Turner took a step forward, her limbs heavy even with the ease of her armour. Behind her, Nick remained where he was, knowing the two Brotherhood soldiers had a personal score to settle.

“So, you can add killing an Elder to your list of bat-shit-crazy ideas.” Turner announced with pseudo-courage leading her. She pretended the sight of Maxson laying lifelessly at the precipice didn’t bother her, didn’t make her reel. It was hard to tell if he was even still alive, but the message it brought made another bolt run through her.

 Childhood friend or no, he’d been partially to blame for everything that happened.

Maxson had been too caught up in what was best for the Brotherhood.

Too envious to see she’d been happy with Metro.

Too proud to realise he started this all.

Too blind to notice just how far Riddik had fallen.

And now, the Paladin stood above him, having thrown the Brotherhood Elder from his perch without so much as a tear. And for what? Not only did one of the highest-ranking officers in their order betray him, but the Knight under their command as well. There was no end to the insult.

He couldn’t stand that Turner had chosen someone from the Railroad, and a synth no less. Couldn’t stand that she didn’t even bat an eye at him? And now, not only had she chosen the Railroad against the family she’d grown with, but a ghoul, and yet another synth.

Perhaps it was presumptuous of her to think that way, but Turner knew, even if it had been just an inkling, there was something more with how Maxson had treated her. As they’d grown older, the air about them changed, and not simply because the mantle of Elder had been thrust onto his shoulders.

It was the reason he’d let her escape not too long ago, didn’t shoot her down the second he saw her even as other members of the Brotherhood tried their best to bring about her end.

Turner shook away the thought and squared herself, placing her helmet back atop her head with a resounding hiss. A deep breath filled her lungs, and she clenched her metal fists readily.

“So, what happens next?” Turner questioned, her fists slightly raised.

Riddik made the motion of lifting their sledge, the bloodied head fallen into their empty right hand. They lowered themselves only a bit, bent in like they were prepared to dart forward even as Nick made himself ready.

XI was the first to speak, even if it hadn’t been his place to do so, “We see what happens when you have to face the reality of your actions.” His tone was haughty, proud, “For once in your life.”

In a flash, Riddik raced forward and drew back their hammer, the weapon like a blur as it brushed past Turner’s head. She’d ducked just in time and lunged forward into their chest before the weapon struck Nick.

Her head butted against Riddik as she pushed them forward along the gangway, the strength of her armour the only thing keeping her moving. The Paladin pressed back with enough force to send her on her heels, a large hand grasping at the front of her breast plate to rip her forward.

She came face-to-face with Riddik, their terrible mask just inches away from her as their golden lenses glowed violently. But with as much force as she could muster, she slammed a fist against the side of their head, the lights flickering for a brief moment.

Turner skidded back along the walkway as a heavy boot struck her in the stomach, fallen not far from Nick.

The synth hadn’t known what to do, didn’t know how to intervene now that the shit was hitting the fan. Instead, he lifted Turner up as Riddik began to advance once more, both coming forward to meet the Paladin.

Their powered sledge rocketed against the gangway and barely missed Nick as he dodged around the weapon, Turner taking a chance to grab at the handle of the hammer. XI moved from his position and locked Nick in a hold from behind, the Knight just as quick as their commander.

The very act of touching the hammer seemed to send Riddik into a frenzy, and they shook Turner from their arm with ease. The powered sledge whirled this way and that, knocking against Turner’s pauldrons like a being possessed. She nearly fell atop Maxson’s prone form, and rolled to her side awkwardly as the head of the hammer struck through the thick metal of the floor.

Just as Nick kicked away from XI and yanked on Riddik’s cape to pull them away from Turner, an explosion rang out from behind them.

The four came to a halt and watched as another mini-nuke detonated against the hull of the Prydwen, the vessel listing against the attack.

The Railroad’s assault had begun.

Nick stumbled forward as the zeppelin lurched, his hands grasped around the handle on the back of Riddik’s armour. But he was swatted away as the Paladin spun around to face him, their sledge striking the side of Nick’s helmet. XI moved out of the way of the synth’s stumbling frame, and gazed as another mini-nuke hit the Prydwen not far from them.

The synth detective fell to his side and watched Turner pull Riddik back to fight her, only to be met with a punch to her own helmet, and another kick to her midsection.

Despite the armour, Turner winced against the pain her stomach, sure that at least a few of her ribs had been broken. The deep breath she took stung her chest, dull pangs with each slow movement. Her ears rang with fear and adrenaline, fueled only by the response her brain elicited.

A mini-nuke exploded against the far end of the gangway, the ballast just above it rupturing in a mess of air and tangled mesh.

“Nick!” Turner yelled over the sudden noise, “Grab Maxson!”

In response, Riddik raced forward to meet Nick as the synth made his way to the fallen Elder, but was stopped by Turner lunging forward. They fell together onto the walkway, the Paladin pinned under the weight of her suit.

Instead, XI came forward and pushed Nick away from the Elder, dragging the supposedly-dead man toward him. With a simple hoist, the Knight had him under one arm, already positioned to jump from the railing at a moment’s notice.

Fist after fist assaulted Riddik’s helmet, the lights of their lenses dimmed under the attack. Turner didn’t halt, couldn’t bring herself to stop even when her chest heaved and heart raced painfully. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking: anger, revenge, fear, fear, fear.

Every punch thrown was a small ounce of fury released.

A hand flew up to grab at Turner’s fist, the metal squealing as the hand of the armour was twisted in on itself. And with a yank, the mechanical attachment flew from its servo, Turner’s real hand left grasping at the inactive pulley system left behind.

Meanwhile, just as another nuke detonated against the hull, Nick watched as XI gave him a salute, one hand reaching up to his brow.

XI leapt from the gangway with Maxson in his arms, and disappeared into the chaos below. Lost in the sea of moving bodies, the synth had no chance to follow him.

Turner rolled from Riddik as the Prydwen shook under the continued attack by the Railroad, finally succumbing to the barrage of nukes that struck its hull. With renewed vigor, she jumped up and just barely readied herself as the Paladin rammed against her.

Riddik’s body was massive even compared to her armoured one, their X-01 frame towering over her easily.

Sparks flew when she skidded against the gangway, the breath knocked from her lungs as the powered sledge landed against her chest plate. It dented inward, all the way to the support rig beneath. Her mechanized arms squealed under the pressure of holding the foot that followed at bay, but she couldn’t keep it for long.

The hammer struck again and again as she laid prone on the floor, the head of the weapon sliding down the length of her arm as she raised it to block the attack. It hadn’t hurt any less as a sting of pain ran down the course of her arm and shoulder.

She screamed, and kicked against one of Riddik’s knees. Both of her arms came up to keep the head of the sledge from striking her helmet, her one functioning hand grasping the length of the pole. Nick came up from behind and yanked the Paladin back from her, only to be stopped when they kicked backwards without looking.

Dodging the brunt of the kick, Nick took hold of the round handle on Riddik’s armour once more and pulled with all his might, just as Turner freed the powered sledge from the Paladin’s grasp.

She couldn’t believe what she held in her hand—the very weapon that struck down countless Railroad agents, innocents, and Enclave alike. But most of all:

The weapon that killed Metro.

Turner lifted herself from the floor shakily and aimed the head of the sledge straight at Riddik, who now eyed her like a Deathclaw on the hunt.

They disregarded Nick entirely, and strode forward even as he tried his best to keep the Paladin at bay. But before Riddik could come close to Turner, she pulled the hammer back just like she’d seen them do time and time before, and whipped it around.

A stream of fire raced along behind it as the head of the powered sledge rocketed against Riddik’s helmet, even as they raised an arm to take a brunt of the attack. It didn’t slow Turner in the slightest, and she continued to swing the hammer wildly with reckless abandon.

All the pain, the anger, the sadness she felt was channeled into that weapon, that unstoppable force, and she pushed against Riddik as they doubled back toward Nick.

The synth stepped to the side to avoid Turner’s frenzied strikes, letting her freely attack the now prone Paladin. But he didn’t stay put for long, and grasped at their cape, wrenching them forward so they could no longer escape the barrage of hits.

How must it feel to be struck with one’s own weapon, Turner thought as she watched Riddik buckle under her attacks. How insulting must it be to cower under the might of a woman who was no longer afraid of you?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was ending this here and now.

Nick spun Riddik around, the edge of their cape tattered and torn away when the force became too great. But the synth swayed back, the Prydwen finally succumbing to the nukes cast against it and leaning greatly to the side.

It would be only a few minutes until the whole of the zeppelin hurdled toward the ground in a fiery inferno.

With one final swing, Turner slammed the head of the powered sledge against the fusion core nested in the back of Riddik’s armour. A concentrated explosion rang out and threw her back along the gangway, briefly blinded by the searing light that emitted from the volatile battery.

Through the dots that scattered across her eyes, she steadied herself enough to gaze at the Paladin who had now crumpled to their knees. Their armour was broken, a smoking husk with what passed as a human, presumably, inside. What remained of their cape was scorched, the emblem of the Brotherhood of Steel marred with blood and deep stains of black—a façade of what it once stood for.

Of what _Riddik_ once stood for.

Nick picked himself up and steadied his footing on the now teetering walkway, the Prydwen gliding slowly toward the sea. Turner followed suit, unsure if Riddik was still alive in what remained of their trophy power armour.

It was poetic almost, when she thought about it. The Enclave had fought just as boldly as the Paladin before her, back at the Jefferson Memorial, and yet they neared the same end.

What pride had wrought, and other such clichés.

“It’s over, Riddik.” Turner bade shakily. The words didn’t feel right on her tongue—too righteous, even though she had **every** right to say them. It felt wrong, almost.

Almost.

The Paladin was silent, as always, the only indication they were still alive the movement of their head to stare at her.

They couldn’t move from where they’d fallen to their knees, their armour locked in place after the fusion core detonated upon impact with their own weapon.

The once terrifying golden lenses of Riddik’s helm flickered, the failing filtration system from within the armour straining with every breath they took.

Altogether, Turner found it hard to feel good about what she saw. She deserved to see Riddik’s end, to see them fallen just as Metro fell, watch as their world came crashing down around them like hers had.

Instead, she turned away, the Paladin’s powered sledge still in her hand even as the Prydwen gave one last groan before it shook uncontrollably.

“Kid, we gotta get off this thing! Now!” Nick yelled as he passed Riddik’s frozen form.

The ground was passing by quickly beneath them. It wouldn’t be much longer until they were over the water, and jumping could spell out death for at least one of them.

With one last look, Turner locked eyes with Riddik, the person who brought her so much pain and fear ever since she proudly called herself a member of the Brotherhood of Steel.

And with that last look, she held firmly onto the handle of the powered sledge in her hand—

And jumped.

\---

From afar, the Railroad watched as the Prydwen came crashing down over the airport, the force of the explosion and impact shaking the earth. Whatever members of the Brotherhood that remained on the ground, whether they ran from the agents or not, were either dead, or lucky enough to have escaped the inferno that tore through what remained of their group.

Deacon watched from the open door of the vertibird, having safely landed on the outskirts of the airport while the rest of the Railroad retreated to safety.

He didn’t let it show, but his eyes searched across the field in the hope he would catch a glimpse of Turner, in the hope that she’d managed to escape. He didn’t let Hancock know how much it bothered him that even amongst the cheers from his fellows, not one person asked about what they might have lost.

Speaking of the ghoul: he sat quietly against one of the muddied wheels of the vertibird, his arm curled up against his chest as a new pain flared through it.

He hardly had the strength to stand when Deacon cut him loose from his bindings, and slid his way to the edge of the cabin before falling off ungracefully. And there he sat, lost in his own thoughts.

The rad storm that loomed above them had moved on mostly, the once toxic green sky now a dull grey in its wake. If they were fortunate, a normal rain would pass through and extinguish the remains of the Prydwen before the flames had a chance to spread elsewhere.

It would be burning for days, regardless.

The two sat that way for what felt like hours, the rest of their team rejoicing as the remains of the Brotherhood fled from the airport and off into Boston proper. What happened to them next was their own problem.

Not usually one for smoking, Deacon unrolled his sleeve and let a crumpled box fall into his hands, the few cigarettes inside rattling around. He offered one to Hancock, who took it without a word and placed it on his scarred lips.

With the arm that worked, he revealed a matchbook from the inside of his frock and let Deacon light one for him, the cigarette doing nothing to calm his nerves. Hell, he would be surprised if jet did a damn thing at that point.

Together, they looked out over the muddy field of dead grass and waited for the commotion to die down, waiting before they would have to get ready to return to Diamond City.

They couldn’t stay there forever even if they wished it so. Though, some would stay behind to loot through the tech the Brotherhood abandoned, if only to bring it back to the Railroad.

The end of Hancock’s spent cigarette fell into his lap, the ashes scattering in the light wind that fanned the flames at the water’s edge. He let the smoke fill his lungs as he drew in what was left, and watched it escape through what passed as his nose slowly.

Through the smoke, he glanced at the edge of the tarmac, his nearsightedness making it nothing more than a blur. But from where he sat, two shapes moved slowly toward them.

His eyes squinted dangerously, wishing his vision hadn’t went to shit just as he’d gone ghoul (which was the main reason he favoured a shotgun, regardless of what he told people). He motioned at Deacon with a “psst”, whose gaze was aimed at their small group under the overhang of a dilapidated building.

Deacon broke contact and stared down at the ghoul, who merely motioned into the distance with a nod.

His eyes followed to where Hancock stared, only to find the familiar shape of two sets of power armour. Instinctively, his hand trailed down to the pistol at his belt, prepared to send a warning shot if they got any closer.

But his gun remained holstered as he stood from his seat and jumped onto the grass, running out toward the two intruders. Hancock could do nothing but watch one blur greet the other two, Deacon’s form bouncing up and down excitedly before trailing along beside them.

Hancock spit out his cigarette into the grass and waited for whatever had gotten Deacon wound up, his vision clearing when the three of them got about twenty feet away.

The armour was definitely Brotherhood, but the way they held themselves screamed something else.

He pulled himself up with his good arm and sat at the edge of the vertibird’s cabin, and took in Deacon and his new friends. One seemed not in the least bit bothered by the singe marks that covered the lower half of their armour, but the other appeared worn-out, the power sledge in their grasp dragged along in the grass.

Power sledge?

When they’d gotten close enough, the two Brotherhood members came to a stop, the one who stood tall acknowledging Hancock at the door to the vertibird.

“Well, don’t you look like yesterday’s newspaper?” came the familiar voice of Nick through the speaker built into the helmet, a sound in which Hancock found a modicum of relief. The synth removed his helmet and placed it on the ground at his feet, his plastic skin no worse for wear despite the look of his armour.

“Laugh it up, Valentine.” The ghoul mayor forced through a smile, as crooked as it was.

He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the knight who remained silent at Nick’s side, Deacon’s hand sat comfortingly on their exposed shoulder.

Hancock didn’t dare hope.

With a nod, Deacon went around the back of the knight and twisted the release handle on the armour, eliciting a hiss as it swung open.

Shakily, a small form fell from the now open armour, steadied on their feet by Deacon.

Their clothes were far too big for their frame, their thick, green coat comically large and bulky. It had to do wonders against the wind that blew in from the ocean, though it no doubt reeked of smoke. Permanently, he imagined, given the state of their armour.

Hancock tumbled from his seat and hobbled forward on legs that could scarcely carry him, his arm limp at his side.

With what strength he could, he embraced Turner as she came forward, her face instinctively buried in the collar of his coat. He put his weight against her and clutched the back of her coat, her arms coiled around him for the first time in a long while.

They didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to—it was enough that she was there, real and alive, and not nearly close enough even when no space remained between them.

From where he stood, Nick gave Deacon a nod, and just like Turner, he stepped out of his power armour.

The grass bounced under his shoes as he approached the entwined pair, fixing his now flattened fedora. “See you two didn’t leave any space for me, then.” He joked to break up the thick air that surrounded them. “Hate to call myself a third wheel, but one of us has to.”

Turner pulled away from Hancock with a tired grin, but let the ghoul lean on her for support despite how much she wished to fall over. And she doubted he would be letting her go any time soon.

“So, what happened?” Hancock asked hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion he tried his best to hide. “Where’s the prick at?”

Turner sighed with what she considered relief, as small as it was, “Gone.” She stated simply, but knew it wasn’t enough, “Took Riddik’s own hammer and blew out their fusion core. If the explosion didn’t kill them, the ocean did.”

Part of her was terrified that not even that would put a stop to Paladin Riddik, that she would wake up from that calm moment and be trapped on the Prydwen—watching as Metro was cast down before her.

It pained her knowing innocent lives had been lost, people who served the Brotherhood for the greater good, people she’d known since childhood. It was beyond her control what happened to them, she wanted to tell herself, but she knew the feeling of guilt wouldn’t leave for a long while.

Instead, she looked up at Nick with an exhausted smile and extended a hand out to him.

He took it without question, the bare metal of his palm cold against her fingers, her hand so small in his.

“I wanna go home.”

\---

Up Next:

Chapter 27: “Final Goodbyes, and the New Case”


End file.
